My lips are on his.
Not a kiss.
God,
no—not even close. Just a brush. A crash. A stupid, clumsy bump of skin against skin, like my mouth tripped and his face happened to be in the way.
I freeze. Completely. The world cuts to silence.
He's warm. Too close. His breath is right there and for one insane second my heart forgets how to beat.
Then reality slams in.
I stumble back so fast my shoulder smacks the shelf. My hand flies to my mouth like I can shove the moment back inside and erase it. My lips are tingling, traitorous, burning like I just swallowed fire.
"I—I'm sorry," I choke out. It comes out thin and cracked and pathetic.
He doesn't answer.
He just looks at me.
Those eyes. Dark, steady, cutting straight through me. No amusement. No anger. No softness. Just… unreadable. The silence thickens, stretching, heavy enough to crush me. My lungs can't find air.
And then, with maddening calm, he lowers the book to the desk, straightens, and walks out.
No word. No glance back. Just gone.
The door clicks shut behind him. Quiet. Final.
And I crumble.
I slide down the shelf until I'm crouched on the floor, burying my face in my hands. Heat explodes across my cheeks, down my neck, everywhere.
"Fuck. Fuck. FUCK." The word rips out of me in a hiss, over and over. My body's shaking, not with fear, but with the unbearable weight of humiliation.
"That wasn't even a kiss," I mutter into my palms, wild and breathless. "It doesn't count. Doesn't fucking count. That was—what even was that? A… a lip accident. A facial collision. God. Kill me."
I tip my head back against the shelf, groaning. "God. My first kiss. My first goddamn kiss and I just squandered it like a moron who can't navigate her own face."
I peel my hands away and glare at the ceiling. "It's not a kiss. Not a real one. Real kisses are… slower. Intentional. Mutual. That was just physics being an asshole."
But my lips—my traitor lips—won't stop tingling. Won't stop replaying the exact brush of his mouth, the heat of him standing over me, the way his eyes locked onto mine right after like… like something.
I press my fingers against my mouth, whispering, "Holy shit."
And then my brain flips on me. Straight to him.
What the hell does he think?
He didn't react. Didn't flinch. Didn't say a word. Just gave me that unreadable stare and walked away. Cold. Controlled. Like nothing happened. Like I was nothing.
"Oh my God," I groan, dragging my hands down my face. "He must think I'm disgusting. Like—like desperate. Throwing myself at him. God. He probably thinks I planned it. Like, wow, look at her, so thirsty she can't even stand upright without falling on his mouth."
I half laugh, half choke, rocking forward. "Pathetic. He probably wants to bleach his lips right now."
And of course, of fucking course, my traitor brain whispers the worst thing possible: what if he didn't hate it?
My cheeks ignite hotter. "Stop. Stop right there. Do not. Don't even think it."
But I do. I can't help it. I imagine what it would've been like if he kissed me back. If he tilted my chin, leaned in slow, deliberate, intentional. If that unreadable silence after wasn't disgust, but restraint.
"Fuck," I hiss, slapping my hands over my ears like I can shut my own thoughts out. "Don't think it. He doesn't even see you like that. He doesn't even see you as his wife, for God's sake."
My laugh comes out manic. "Yeah, congrats, genius. First kiss, and it's a humiliation ritual. He'll probably never forget how gross it was. And you? You'll never stop reliving it. Congratulations, idiot. You've doomed yourself to a lifetime of blushing at your own stupidity."
I press my palms hard against my burning cheeks, crouched small on the rug, lips still betraying me with every tingle, every phantom memory.
It wasn't a kiss.
So why the hell does it feel like one?
I stare at the door.
It's shut tight, neat little click still echoing in my ears like a goddamn gunshot. He's on the other side of it, probably in the bathroom right now, bent over the sink like—what the fuck was that, scrubbing his mouth like he caught a disease.
Yeah. He's got one of those fancy exfoliating gloves on. Or maybe—Jesus Christ—one of those electric face brushes. Foaming cleanser, minty, burning, rinsing me right off him.
I collapse backward onto the rug, covering my face. A strangled sound claws out of my throat. "He's brushing me off. Fucking exfoliating me into the drain."
I roll over, burying my face into the carpet fibers. "Oh my God. I'm microdermabrasion."
My chest convulses between laughter and horror. It won't stop. My whole body feels like it's vibrating from inside out.
Why the fuck am I this embarrassed? It wasn't my intention. I didn't climb him like a tree and shove my tongue down his throat. My mouth just… miscalculated. That's it. A math error. A geometry accident. Not a felony.
I sit up fast, shoving my hair out of my face, nodding to myself like a lunatic. "Exactly. It wasn't me. It was… Pythagoras. Gravity. The fucking angle of rotation. Totally innocent."
My heartbeat still won't calm. My lips won't stop throbbing.
I slam my palm against my mouth. "It was an accident. I can face him. I will face him. Tomorrow I'll walk right past him like nothing happened. Better—tonight. I'll face him tonight. Look him straight in those judgmental deadpan eyes and be like, yeah, so what, bro, your cheekbone got in the way of my face. Sue me."
My voice cracks on the last word. I let out an ugly little growl and collapse forward again, palms dragging down my burning skin. "Nope. Nope, nope, nope. Can't do it. He definitely thinks I'm diseased."
I flop flat on my back this time, staring at the ceiling like it personally betrayed me. My mind won't quit serving up images of him in the bathroom. That jaw tight, that controlled way he moves—except now it's all aggressive scrubbing motions. A towel snapping, water splashing, him muttering disgusting under his breath while rubbing his lips raw until they're red.
My stomach drops. "Fuck. He's definitely doing that. He's going to come out looking like he just got chemical-burned."
The thought sends me into another spiral of laughter, choking and broken, hands clapped over my mouth.
"God. I'm dead. I'm actually dead."
I curl into a ball on the rug, heat crawling down my spine, my thighs, everywhere. My lips pulse again like some cruel reminder. Like they're taunting me—he was here. He was right here.
I shove my face into my knees. "Shut up. Shut the fuck up. Don't you dare start romanticizing this."
But my brain is already off. Already picturing him not in the bathroom scrubbing me away but pressing those unreadable eyes closer, mouth firm and intentional against mine. Slow. Sure. His hand at the back of my neck—
"God." I practically bark it, shaking my head so hard my hair whips. "No. Stop. He is literally washing his face right now. Probably gargling bleach. End of story."
I collapse sideways, body buzzing, face burning so hot I could power the entire house.
"He washed his face," I mutter into the carpet, manic and breathless. "He definitely washed his face."
______________________________
ZAYAN 'S POV
The second the door shuts behind me, I don't move.
I stand there, back pressed to the wood, pulse slamming like I just ran through fire. I let out a breath so heavy it scrapes my throat on the way out, shaky and sharp.
Fuck.
Her lips. Jesus Christ. Her lips brushed mine and it was nothing—an accident, a stumble, a wrong angle. It wasn't even a kiss. But my body didn't give a shit about definitions. That single brush felt like I'd been dropped into a live wire.
Four years. Four goddamn years of wanting her from a distance. Two months of marriage, sleeping next to her, living with her, breathing the same air—touching everywhere except where I want most. And then today, this morning, without warning—my first taste.
My jaw aches from clenching it so hard. My hand drags down my face, rough, like I can wipe the heat off me. Doesn't work. I can still feel it—the ghost of her mouth against mine. Soft. Too soft. So fucking soft it's killing me.
I smirk, helpless. Bite down on my lower lip until it hurts. If I hadn't walked out right then, I would've taken it further. I would've lost it completely, pressed her back into those shelves, and kissed her like I've been starving to for years. And she would've known it wasn't an accident. Not gravity. Not angles. Not math. Me.
The worst part? The moment right after. When she looked at me with those wide eyes, her hand flying up to cover her mouth. Covering me. Like she was holding on. And I wanted—fuck, I wanted to rip her hand away and do it again, intentional this time, slow, deep, no room for doubt.
My tongue sweeps over my lips. GOD. It's still there. Faint, maddening. That one slip has me replaying it on loop like a lunatic. First time I've ever tasted anyone, and it's her. Exactly the way I always knew it would happen—messy, out of control, nothing about it planned.
I let out a rough laugh under my breath. Not amused. Dangerous. If she saw me now, she'd know. She'd know how close she came to watching me unravel.
But she won't. She doesn't know, and she won't. She'll think I walked away because I didn't care, because it disgusted me. Good. That's what I'll let her think. I'll face her like nothing happened. Calm. Deadpan. Mask in place. While inside I'm dying to do it again.
She has no idea. No idea how I've wanted this for years. How I've gone insane living in control, locked down, silent, waiting. How much it costs me to stop at the door instead of going back in there and tasting her until I can't breathe.
I drag a hand through my hair, smirk tugging at my mouth again, darker this time. My chest feels too tight, but it's not dread. It's joy. Pure, fucking dangerous joy. Because after years of waiting, years of watching, today it finally happened. Morning, and she's already undone me.
I lick my lips again, slow, savoring. Yeah. She won't care. She'll brush it off like it was nothing. And that's fine. Because I'll never touch her without her consent, never cross that line.
But God—if she ever lets me? If she ever gives me that one chance?
Then I'll make sure she forgets the word accident even exists.
I drag myself off the wall, still breathing like a fucking animal. My chest is hot, tight, restless, but I push it down. This isn't it. That—what just happened—can't be it. I can't even let myself label it as my first kiss. No. When it happens, it won't be some clumsy accident, won't be gravity or angles or whatever the hell just betrayed me.
It'll be her choice. Her mouth meeting mine because she wants to. Because she gives me that permission. That's the one that'll count. That'll be the first.
Not this. Never this.
I'm halfway down the hall when I hear it—the low rumble of an engine outside, tires crunching against the driveway. A second later, doors slamming. Voices.
My stomach drops. "Fuck," I mutter under my breath. Because of course. Of course those three bastards pick today to show up.
I slap my cheeks lightly, once, twice, dragging my hands down until the heat dies under my palms. Mask on. Neutral. Blank. The last thing I need is them sniffing out the wreck I am right now.
By the time I hit the foyer, the door's already opening, and they're striding in like they own the place.
Razmir first, smug grin plastered on his face. Eshan right behind, smirk sharp enough to cut glass. Rafaen trailing, quieter, but his eyes always see too much.
"How you doing, bro?" Razmir drawls, like the words themselves are a setup.
I narrow my eyes. "You guys were here two days ago. Why the fuck do you keep coming back?"
Razmir only shrugs, cocky as ever. "Before your marriage we were always here, and you never complained. Funny how that changed."
I don't take the bait. I just stare at him, jaw tight, until his grin flickers.
Eshan cuts in, voice smooth, eyes sharp. "I didn't come to see you anyway. I came to see her, bitch."
My jaw flexes. I roll my eyes slow, deliberate. "She's my wife."
He smirks wider, tilting his head like he's poking the wound on purpose. "And she's my family."
My voice drops lower, almost a growl. "Since when the fuck did she become your family?"
Eshan doesn't even blink. "Since your marriage." Then he shoulders past me like he owns the hallway, heading inside, already calling her name.
I don't stop him. I don't trust myself to open my mouth right now.
Rafaen lingers, watching me. He's always been the one who notices the cracks. His gaze flicks over my face, searching, and finally he asks, quiet, "You okay?"
My head snaps to him. "Why the hell are you asking?"
He doesn't flinch. Just says it flat, simple. "Because you look wrecked."
The word cuts too close. My smirk is automatic, sharp, defensive. "It's nothing."
He hums, skeptical, eyes still on me like he knows there's more. But he doesn't push. He just nods once, slow, and steps past, leaving me alone in the foyer with my pulse still trying to crawl out of my throat.
______________________
ARSHILA'S POV
I'm still crouched on the rug in the study, knees hugged to my chest, when the sound hits me. Car doors. Male voices. The deep, familiar rumble of laughter cutting through the house like it owns the place.
My blood goes cold. Of course. Of fucking course.
Because the universe isn't done humiliating me. Not even close. First I crash my lips into my husband's like a deranged idiot, and now? An audience. The worst possible audience.
"Perfect," I mutter under my breath, dragging my fingers down my burning face. "Just fucking perfect."
And then it happens—my name. Called down the hallway, loud and unapologetic, voice laced with that cocky lilt I'd recognize anywhere.
Eshan.
My stomach flips hard. I freeze for a second, gripping the edge of the desk like I need it to anchor me. Heavy breath in. Another out. Mask. Neutral face. I shove the disaster of the last five minutes into some locked corner of my brain and paste on a calm I don't feel.
By the time I step into the hall, my spine is straight, my expression smooth, like I hadn't just been on the floor begging the carpet to eat me alive.
They're all there in the foyer. The trio. Razmir leaning against the wall like he built it, smirk already in place. Eshan at the front, smug and dangerous, eyes sharp on me. Rafaen at the back, quieter, watching everything like a hawk.
Zayan isn't there.
Relief slams into me so hard I almost stumble. I can't face him right now. Not with my lips still tingling, not with the memory branded so hot into me I swear it's written across my skin.
I keep my steps even as I enter the hall, chin up. "Why the hell are you calling me like I'm your dog, Eshan?"
Eshan grins, slow, infuriating. "Because you always come when I do."
My jaw tightens. "Try again. I only come when I want to."
Razmir laughs, short and sharp. "That sounded dirtier than you think."
I shoot him a look, flat, unimpressed. "And your brain went there faster than lightning. Congrats."
He just smirks wider, unashamed.
Eshan leans in slightly, voice lowering but no less smug. "We missed you. House is boring without you around."
I cross my arms. "What is this, a gang of strays who can't stay off my porch? You were literally here two days ago."
Rafaen's mouth twitches—almost a smile, almost not. He's the only one who doesn't look like he's here to stir shit, but that doesn't mean he won't watch me unravel if I let them.
Before I can throw another barb, I feel it.
The shift.
A presence sliding into the room like gravity just got heavier.
I don't have to look. My body knows before my eyes do.
But I look anyway.
And there he is—Zayan, stepping out of the foyer. Calm, controlled, unreadable as stone. Except I know better. I know what's under that mask, because I tasted it. Felt it.
Our eyes lock across the room.
The air tightens, sharp and electric.
My throat burns with the urge to look away, but I don't. I force my face smooth, my body steady, every nerve screaming at me not to flinch, not to let them see.
My lips tingle. My chest pounds. And I pray—pray to whatever's listening—that none of them can hear it.
I force myself not to think. Not about the lips I accidentally brushed. Not about the way his eyes are cutting through me right now.
But my chest betrays me—tight, fluttering—when I dare to meet his gaze again.
He's still looking at me.
Not blinking. Not shifting. Just… looking.
Heat floods up my throat. I swallow, hard, and snap my eyes away so fast it's almost painful.
And then Eshan's voice slices in, lazy and sharp, dragging the tension with him.
"I'm so fucking tired. That old man dumped a mountain of work on me yesterday."
I blink, grateful for the distraction. "Who?"
Eshan throws me a look like I just asked whether fire burns. Then his mouth quirks in that infuriating smirk.
"Who else? My almighty grandfather."
The words hang heavy. The three of them react instantly—like a chord struck too loud.
Razmir's smirk falters into something sharper. Rafaen makes a sound low in his throat. Even Zayan—silent, immovable Zayan—feels heavier, the air around him thickening like storm clouds.
I lift my brows. "...Right. Okay. I actually have a question."
Razmir leans off the wall, eyes gleaming like he's been waiting for this.
"Here it comes."
I puff out a breath, crossing my arms tighter. "Do you guys even have any freedom?"
Rafaen scoffs, sharp and humorless.
Razmir tilts his head.
"Define freedom."
I throw my hands out. "I don't know—basic human shit? Eating when you want, sleeping when you want, not having your life scripted by someone else's rules. Living like a normal person, maybe?"
Eshan laughs, sharp and derisive.
"Normal? You think we're built for normal?"
"Yes," I snap back. "You look perfectly normal to me. Just… rich assholes with shiny toys."
Razmir's grin widens, slow and predatory.
"Toys? Darling, toys are for men with limits. We don't play with scraps. We own the table."
I scowl. "That doesn't sound like freedom. That just sounds like another cage. You're leashed. Just gilded."
Rafaen steps forward a little, voice low but cutting.
"We're not leashed. We're not caged. We do what we want. No one tells us no. If we wanted to burn this house to the ground and rebuild it by sunrise, it would be done. That's freedom."
The certainty in his tone makes my stomach twist.
Razmir gestures lazily, as though presenting his case before a jury that's already lost.
"If you have money, you have freedom. More money than God himself? That's absolute freedom."
I shake my head. "No. That's privilege. Privilege in a prettier box. You're not free—you're bought and bound, just with better jewelry."
Eshan leans forward on the couch, smirk carved deep, eyes glinting.
"If I want to spend my morning in Milan, have lunch in Paris, and dinner on a yacht in the Maldives—do you call that being bound?"
I freeze. My mouth goes dry.
He doesn't stop. He never does.
"If I want a painting, it's mine. If I want a company, I buy it. If I want silence, I make it. If I want chaos, I start it. You tell me—where the fuck is the leash in that?"
My lips part, but nothing comes out. The sheer arrogance, the obscene truth in his words—it burns, hot and ugly.
Razmir chuckles, eyes never leaving me.
"You're thinking like the poor. Freedom isn't absence of rules. Freedom is being the one who writes them."
The words sink into me like knives. My heart pounds hard enough I swear they can hear it.
And still—still—I feel it.
That stare.
Zayan. Silent. Unyielding. Watching me like he already knows every thought in my head.
It's unbearable. It's intoxicating.
And I hate it.
I don't understand their world.
I don't think I ever will.
Theirs is built on old money and older bloodlines, on rules whispered in halls I was never supposed to walk through. I'm an outsider—middle class, ordinary, dragged into a life I didn't choose but can't escape.
And yet, somehow, I'm here.
Razmir tilts his head, watching me like a predator toying with prey. His voice is smooth, taunting.
"Tell me, sweetheart. Your husband—the most powerful, most wealthy man in the world. Do you think he has freedom?"
My throat tightens, but the word comes anyway.
"…No."
The silence lasts a beat before Eshan's laugh tears it apart, sharp and mocking. He leans forward, eyes glittering with cruel amusement.
"No? You're saying Zayan fucking Tavarian doesn't have freedom? Enlighten me. I need a laugh."
My jaw clenches. My pulse hammers.
"Because he couldn't even marry the person he truly wanted. Instead, he married me. To protect his family name."
The room fractures.
Razmir's grin freezes, then stretches into something darker, sharper. Rafaen goes utterly still, his jaw ticking. Even Eshan, who lives for fire, pauses mid-smirk, the air caught heavy around him.
And then—
Zayan.
His voice is low. Dangerous. Like steel being unsheathed.
"You think like that? Huh?"
My breath catches. His eyes—dark, consuming—lock on me with terrifying precision.
I force myself to meet them, even as my chest twists.
"That's what it looks like."
He steps closer, deliberate, every movement coiled control.
"What it looks like. You build your truth out of shadows and scraps. Out of whatever story makes sense in your tiny, fragile world. And then you have the audacity to put that on me."
The words cut deep, but anger fuels me.
"And what story do you tell yourself, Zayan? That this marriage was anything more than a transaction? That you wanted it? That it wasn't just another way to protect your empire from a single crack in its foundation?"
The silence thickens like smoke.
Eshan whistles low, enjoying every second. "Well, this is bloody delightful."
Razmir's grin is wicked. "Careful, darling. You'll draw blood."
But I don't stop. I can't.
"You call yourself free? You think power bought you that? Look at yourself—you're chained to your family, to your legacy, to your damn name. You're not free. You're just trapped in a prettier cage."
Zayan's jaw flexes, his voice dropping to lethal softness.
"And you think you're qualified to see my chains?"
My chest heaves. "At least I know what freedom feels like. At least I've had it. You wouldn't recognize it if it was staring you in the face."
He takes another step, close enough I can feel the heat rolling off him. His eyes burn into mine.
"Say that again."
The challenge in his voice sets my skin on fire. My throat is dry, but I spit the words anyway.
"You are not free. If you were, you would've married the person you actually wanted."
The words hit like a gunshot.
The air collapses. Rafaen mutters something under his breath that no one hears. Razmir's grin is sharp as a blade. Eshan sits back, watching like it's the best play of his life.
And Zayan—
Zayan doesn't blink. His stare is molten, terrifying in its stillness.
Then my voice breaks the silence, trembling but defiant.
"If you have freedom, then marry the one you want."
Something in him snaps. His lips curl, slow and dangerous. He closes the distance between us until the heat of him crashes into me. His voice is molten, intimate and lethal all at once.
"Do you have freedom?"
My breath stutters, but I answer. "Yes."
His eyes burn into me, endless and merciless.
"If you did…" He leans closer, close enough that his breath ghosts against my skin. "…then why the fuck did you marry me?"