I don't know him.
God, that thought hits like a blade pressed to my skin as I trail them down the hallway.
I don't know what Adam Zayan Tavarian actually is.
Not his past, not his hobbies, not his fucking secrets.
All I've ever seen is the curated version—arrogant, cold, the kind of cocky heir who could make empires kneel with a glance and still look bored about it.
But now? Watching him like this, letting my eleven-year-old menace drag him along like they've been brothers their whole lives? No. He's not that simple. He's more. He's always been more, and suddenly I'm drowning in the fact that I don't even know where the real edges of him start.
He looks casual as hell tonight, which is somehow worse. A plain shirt that probably costs more than my entire closet, loose fit jeans, a watch on his wrist that could buy a car without blinking.
He doesn't flaunt it. He doesn't have to. The wealth drips off him like it's written in his DNA. The casual bratty-rich-boy aesthetic, except it's threaded with that dangerous grace of his—like he could level a room even while standing there looking like he's just stepped out to grab coffee.
We step inside Ahil's room, and it's chaos like always—posters, game controllers, books shoved where they don't belong. But Ahil beams like he's giving Zayan a tour of the fucking White House.
"This is where I play… this is my desk… that's my setup…"
And Zayan—Adam fucking Zayan Tavarian—actually listens. Watches him. Not just the polite kind of watching, but with that quiet, anchored weight that makes you feel seen whether you want it or not. His eyes track Ahil with something terrifyingly close to fondness, like he's looking at a little brother instead of some kid he stumbled into because of me.
Meanwhile Ahil? He's practically glowing. He's talking fast, excited, bragging like Zayan just stepped into his universe and made it official. My little brother—who doesn't give a damn about anyone or anything—has the audacity to look at my husband like he's some superhero descended straight from Olympus.
And me? I'm standing there rolling my eyes so hard it hurts. Because apparently I don't matter. Apparently I'm invisible in my own house, the sister who does the midnight cookie smuggling and covers his lazy ass when he forgets homework. And suddenly Zayan waltzes in, says a few words, and Ahil acts like he's found his savior. That bitch.
The betrayal burns in my chest. But worse—the betrayal isn't just Ahil's. It's mine. Because I can't stop looking at him either.
At Zayan.
At the way his shirt clings across his shoulders when he leans down just a little. The way his voice dips lower, smoother, when he asks Ahil something about his game. The way his chain flashes at his collarbone when the light catches it, taunting me like always.
And then—just when I think I can hide behind the safety of my own cynicism—he turns.
Looks at me.
Not a casual glance. Not that arrogant dismissal he usually gifts me like it's all I deserve. This one is… curious. Heavy. Like he's studying me for the first time, like I'm the puzzle he suddenly wants to solve instead of toss aside.
"Where's your room?"
The words knock the breath clean out of me.
Because he asks it soft, almost innocent, but his eyes—fuck, his eyes are anything but. Dark, sharp, gleaming with something I can't pin down. A beginning. A challenge. A promise I'm not ready for.
My lungs forget how to work. My heart slams itself against my ribs like it's trying to escape.
And for the first time, I don't feel like I'm standing in my house.
I feel like I'm standing at the edge of something else.
Something dangerous. Something new.
Zayan's POV
"Where's your room?"
The words leave my mouth soft, casual. But fuck, there's nothing casual about them.
I know exactly where her room is. I've always known. I could walk there blindfolded, hands tied behind my back, and I'd still find it.
But I want her to take me. I want her to lead me like I don't already own every fucking corner of this house in ways she can't even imagine.
Her breath stutters, chest tightening like I just stripped her bare without touching her. Good. She should feel it. She should fucking feel me everywhere.
"Come," she says finally, clipped, defensive, but her voice cracks around the edges. She climbs the stairs without looking back. And I follow. Always.
The hallway swallows us in silence, every step pulling me closer to the one place I've kept buried under my ribs for a year. My pulse kicks harder with each inch. By the time we reach her door, I'm holding my breath like a goddamn addict waiting for a hit.
She opens it. Pushes the door wide like she's daring me to judge, to enter, to see too much.
And I step inside.
The breath I've been caging explodes out of me.
Fuck.
It's the same.
Exactly the same.
The same posters pinned crooked on the wall. The same blanket folded half-assed on the bed. The same desk with its mess of books and pens she'll pretend aren't important but can't let go of.
And that bed. God. The bed that has haunted me.
A year. It's been a year since I last stood in this room, alone, in the dark. Watching her sleep with her hand curled under her cheek, her cat breathing at her feet. I remember it too vividly, every goddamn second. I remember reaching down, running my fingers through that cat's fur until I took the bastard with me just to feel like I wasn't leaving completely empty-handed.
I shouldn't be here. Not now. Not again. But here I am. And fuck me—it feels like I never left.
I feel her eyes on me. Watching, waiting. Probably trying to figure out if I'll sneer or laugh or destroy.
My mouth curls. "So this is your sanctuary?"
I keep my voice low, steady. But it's a blade under silk.
She says nothing. Just stares at me with that killer glare of hers, like silence is safer than admitting this room is her heart pinned open for me to dissect.
My gaze slides back to the bed. That goddamn bed. The image slams into me—the way she used to look tangled in those sheets, oblivious, fragile in a way she never lets herself be awake. And my hands ache. Itch. To grab her, throw her down, pin her wrists, drag the blanket over us and say what I've bitten back every single time: I was always here. I've always been here.
Her voice cuts sharp, suspicious. "You're judging?"
I drag my eyes from the bed to her. She has no idea. No fucking idea.
My jaw ticks, slow, controlled. "No."
One word. Nothing more. But it's all she's getting—because if I give her more, I'll give her everything.
And she's not ready for that.
Not yet.
ARSHILA'S POV
I shouldn't be staring.
But I am. God, I am.
The whole time he's in my room, the whole time he's looking around like he's mapping out secrets I didn't even know I left uncovered—I don't take my eyes off him. Not once. Because if I do, if I blink, I might miss something. And missing something with Adam Zayan Tavarian feels like losing a war I never agreed to fight.
When we finally get dragged back to the living room, I'm still locked on him. I tell myself to stop, to breathe, to act normal—but normal doesn't exist when he's here. Normal evaporates the second he steps into a space. He becomes the gravity, and the rest of us are just orbiting, pretending we aren't trapped.
Then Mom calls us to eat.
And I swear I almost choke just watching him sit at our table.
This is a man who dines on luxury like it's air. The kind of bastard who probably sends back a meal if the garnish isn't aligned at a perfect angle. And here he is—sitting in my house, at my family's table—serving himself food like it's the most natural thing in the fucking world.
And then. Then.
The fucker actually opens his mouth and says to my mom, "Your cooking is good."
I almost throw my fork across the room.
Yeah, it's good. It's amazing, actually—Mom could outcook Michelin-star chefs without breaking a sweat. But hearing him say it? Him, of all people? It feels… wrong. Too real. Too close. Like the Zayan I know—the arrogant, untouchable devil—slipped, and this stranger-who-plays-games-with-my-brother is sitting in his place.
My eyes stay on him the whole time. Through every bite he takes, every calm comment he gives, every sharp glance he sends that no one else notices. I don't look away once. Not even when Ahil starts spouting some nonsense about how Zayan's better than me. Not even when Mom smiles at him like he's already been family for years.
When dinner ends and it's time to leave, he says goodbye. To everyone.
He shakes my dad's hand, nods at Mom, even gives Ahil one of those looks that makes my little brother stand taller, prouder, like he's been knighted by some holy order. And then—fuck me—he says he'll return. Like it's a promise written in stone. Like he owns the right to declare it.
And no one argues.
No one except me, in my head, silently screaming.
We step outside, the air cooler, heavier. He pauses. Doesn't get in the car right away. His eyes cut across the street, settling on the old, abandoned house opposite mine. It's been there forever—crumbling, silent, a shadow no one pays attention to.
But he's staring. Too long. Too still.
I frown, glance between him and the house. "What?"
He shakes his head once, smooth, final. "Nothing."
And that's it. Just gets in the car, like I didn't see something coil in his expression. Like I didn't catch the shadow of a memory he's not going to tell me about.
The engine roars. The car launches forward, a blur of speed that should terrify me but doesn't anymore. Not since marrying him. Not since I learned that Adam Zayan Tavarian doesn't drive—he fucking dominates the road, taking it like it's his personal kingdom. Two-sixty on the highway? Nothing. Three hundred if he feels like it? I've sat there silent, nails dug into the seat, until my body learned to stop flinching. Until my body got used to surviving the storm that is him.
I glance at him now, my heart doing that reckless thing where it skips and stutters and pretends it's not breaking itself open. His profile is cut sharp against the streetlights bleeding through the window—jaw tense, mouth set, eyes forward like he's chasing something no one else can see.
He doesn't look real. He never does. He looks like he belongs in a world carved out of glass and steel and bloodlines, not in this car, not on this road, not sitting next to me with my family's cooking in his stomach.
And still. Still, I can't stop staring.
Because somewhere between the smirk that ruins me and the silence that strangles me, I've realized something terrifying.
I don't just want to know who he is.
I want to tear him open.
Find every secret. Every past. Every mask.
And I want to see the man underneath—the one who looked at my little brother like family, who ate dinner like it wasn't beneath him, who stared at that old house like it held ghosts.
I don't know him.
But God help me, I want to.
The mansion looms into view, glass and steel cutting through the night like it owns the stars. He slides the car down into the underground parking lot, smooth, precise, not a sound wasted.
The engine cuts. Silence detonates.
But I don't stop staring.
Not when the headlights die. Not when shadows swallow us. Not even when the only sound left is the faint tick of the cooling engine and the steady drum of my own pulse.
He doesn't look at me. Doesn't have to. His voice slices through the dark, low and flat.
"You've been staring at me since we stepped out of your fucking house. It's been an hour. Don't you get bored?"
My throat dries, but my mouth doesn't back down.
"Who are you?"
That gets him. A twitch at his mouth. A slow curl, that smirk that makes me want to both slap him and drag him closer. He tilts his head slightly, not bothering to face me.
"Me? It's better you don't know."
I grit my teeth, leaning forward, refusing to let it slide.
"I'm serious. What's your real face?"
That makes him finally turn. Slowly. His eyes catch mine, dark, steady, and he leans closer across the space between us until I feel my breath ricochet.
"Didn't I tell you yesterday?" His voice is silk over steel. "You don't know me."
My chest locks tight. My voice scrapes out sharp.
"Why act like that in front of my parents, then? Smiling at my mom, sitting at our table like you belong—why?"
One brow arches, faint, mocking.
"Acting?" he repeats, quiet but edged.
I hate the way my pulse trips. I force the words out.
"You tell me."
For a beat, silence. Then that smirk again, slower, sharper.
"Maybe it wasn't acting."
The thought slams through me before I can stop it, too raw, too dangerous. I push back hard.
"When did you start playing games with my brother? Huh? The fucking Tavarian heir—playing games with Ahil?"
Something flickers in his gaze. Not shame. Not guilt. Just… something I can't name. He tilts his head again, the gesture slow, predatory.
"You don't have to know."
Heat spikes through me. Anger or fear or both—I don't even care.
"Whatever you're playing, don't drag my family into it."
That earns me a laugh. Low, soft, infuriating. He doesn't even try to hide the curve of his mouth this time.
"They already are."
The words hit like a blade pressed, not cut. My stomach twists.
I lean closer, my voice cracking sharp through the air.
"What the fuck does that mean?"
His eyes don't leave mine, heavy and unblinking, the vein in his forearm standing out where his hand rests casually on the wheel. He doesn't answer. Just lets the silence choke me.
I shove harder. "Tell me."
The corner of his mouth tilts, maddening.
"Maybe you'll figure it out."
That does it. My blood burns, my nails biting into my palm. I want to scream, to rip that smirk clean off his face, but all I do is hold his stare, because if I look away I'll lose.
And losing to him? Never.
His eyes drag over me one last time, slow and deliberate, before he finally leans back, unbuckling his seatbelt with a snap.
"You're asking the wrong questions."
Then he's out of the car, door slamming shut, leaving me sitting there in the dark, shaking, furious, breathless—like he just lit a fuse inside my chest and walked away without watching it burn.
The elevator ride is suffocating.
Not because of the walls, not because of the silence—because of him.
He doesn't even look at me. Not once. Stands there with one hand shoved in his pocket, the other hanging loose at his side, head tilted just slightly like he's listening to something only he can hear. The floor lights blink upward, steady, mechanical. My pulse doesn't follow the same rhythm. Mine's a hammer, erratic, too fucking loud.
By the time the doors slide open, my lungs are tight. We step out, his stride unhurried, mine sharp and fast to keep from combusting. The suite door shuts behind us, sealing me in with him.
I swear, if silence had weight, it would crush me right here.
My brain sparks, restless.
I'll rip it off. That perfect heir mask. That Tavarian smirk, that polite, flawless version he wears at tables, with my family, in front of the world. He's got more than one face—I've seen it. And I'll figure out every single one. Even if it kills me.
The thought is barely formed when his voice cuts through the air, low and merciless.
"Don't."
My head snaps up. He doesn't move. Doesn't even glance back at me—just slides his hand down his shirt front like he knows I'm watching. His tone is sharp enough to slice bone.
"Don't plot anything in that mind. You can't handle what you'll find."
Heat spikes up my spine, fury laced with something I don't want to name. My jaw locks. My hands curl into fists. Confusion tangles in the mess too—because how the hell does he always know?
I glare at him, but he doesn't flinch. Doesn't blink. Just turns his head slowly, finally, until his eyes catch mine.
And then—fuck him—he starts unbuttoning his shirt.
One button.
Two.
Deliberate. Slow. Not enough to bare him, just enough to ruin me.
My throat forgets how to swallow. My chest knots tight. He doesn't smirk, doesn't tease—just holds my gaze with that patient predator's stare, like he's got all the time in the world to watch me unravel.
And I hate it. I hate that it works. Hate the heat crawling under my skin, hate the pull in my stomach, hate the way my breath scrapes shallow like my body betrayed me.
I snap my eyes away, rip my feet into motion before I combust right there. My steps are too loud against the floor, too harsh, but I don't care. I shove into my room, slam the door hard enough to rattle the frame.
Darkness. Silence. My chest heaving.
I press my forehead against the wood, eyes shut. His face is still there, stamped on the back of my eyelids. The way he looked at me. The way his fingers lingered at those buttons like he wasn't undressing, just commanding.
And the worst part?
I miss him.
Not him him. Not the bastard who smirks and taunts and leaves me shaking like this. No.
I miss the other one.
The well-mannered, almost shy son-in-law who sat at my family's table tonight. The one who told my mom her cooking was good like he meant it, who served himself food like it wasn't beneath him, who made my dad's handshake feel like respect instead of formality. That version. That quiet, polite, maddeningly human version.
It was good. Too good.
And I miss it already.
But the one I'm stuck with?
This version. The one who unbuttons his shirt just to watch me walk away. The one who speaks in riddles and commands. The one who's too much and not enough and somehow always winning.
I hate him.
I want him.
I don't know which is worse.
Zayans pov
Her door rattles in its frame when she slams it. I don't even flinch.
I keep my eyes on it. Half-open shirt, chest just barely exposed, my fingers dragging slow over the next button like I've got all night—and I do. She's in there pacing, burning, cursing me. She thinks she escaped me. She doesn't fucking get it. She carried me with her.
I smirk, low and sharp, because I know exactly what I did.
That wasn't some careless tease back there. That was deliberate. Precise. A goddamn scalpel, not a blade. She doesn't even know how deep I cut. She'll replay it, over and over, hating the way her body answered before her mind caught up. That stare, those buttons, that command. She thinks she slammed the door on me—no. She locked herself in with the ghost of my hands on her.
And I fucking love it.
But tonight wasn't about games. Not really. What I did at her house? Sitting at her table, eating her mother's food, watching her father size me up and decide I wasn't trash—it wasn't acting. It wasn't some Tavarian mask I pulled out of storage. That was me, raw and free, the part of me no one ever sees. The part I never thought I'd get to be.
And she has no clue what that cost me. Or how much it gave me.
Because fuck, that was my dream moment. Not the wealth, not the deals, not the dynasty bullshit. That table. That family. Hers. Mine, by extension. That's what I wanted. That's what I'll bleed for.
It's not that I don't get love from my family. I've had Tavarian love—it's sharp, conditional, a chokehold disguised as a hand on the shoulder. But hers? Christ. It was different. The easy chatter, the way her mom fussed like it mattered, the way her dad's respect wasn't bought, it was earned. It was human. And because it was hers, it was mine. That's how it works.
And then there's her brother.
Yeah, I hacked his phone years ago. Set up parental controls like I owned him. And I did it for her, not for him. A way to tether myself closer. To prove I could weave myself into her world even when she thought she hated me. He was leverage, nothing more.
At first.
But then that little menace grew on me. Exact same sharp tongue, exact same restless fire as her. He's a miniature version of her chaos. Somewhere between all the hacked screens and the games I played with him, I started to actually like him. More than like—fuck, I look forward to it. He makes me laugh in a way no one else does. He doesn't even know I'm his villain. To him, I'm just the guy who knows too much, who wins too fast. He calls me names. He doesn't bow. And I let him get away with it because he's hers.
Tonight though? Tonight I hated myself a little. Hated that I'd manipulated him at the start, when now I'd slit a throat for him without blinking. That's how far gone I am. That's how twisted this thing has me.
I rake a hand through my hair, let out a low curse.
She thinks she's smart. Thinks she's unraveling me, stripping me of masks one by one. She's right about one thing—there are faces I wear. The Tavarian heir. The predator. The patient son-in-law. But she hasn't even scraped the surface of what's underneath. She'll dig, because she's too stubborn not to. She'll test me, corner me, try to rip the truth out with those furious eyes.
And I'll let her think she's close. I'll watch her claw at walls she can't break. Because she won't find shit until I put it in her hands.
And one day—I will.
One day I'll open the vault and let her see it all. Every fucked-up thing I've done, every mask, every obsession I've buried under control. Every way I've already threaded her life into mine without asking. And that moment? That's the only thing that scares me. Because once she knows—really knows—there's no going back. She'll either run. Or she'll burn with me.
My gaze sharpens on her door. I can practically feel her on the other side. Palms against the wood, chest heaving, whispering curses that taste like my name. She's restless, and I know her too well—she won't stay still. She'll come back out. She'll confront me. She always does.
And when she does? I'll be right here. Half-dressed, patient, dangerous. Smirking like the bastard she swears she hates.
She thinks I'm too much. Not enough. Always winning.
She's right.
Because I don't just own the space around her.
I own the pace of her heartbeat.
And I'm not fucking giving it back.