Arshila'spov
It hits me like a goddamn punch to the ribs.
That scar.
Jesus fucking Christ.
I don't just see it—I feel it. My lungs jam shut, my stomach bottoms out, my pulse goes feral. And then—like he fucking knows—Izar shifts. The muscles in his back flex, the scar pulling tight as he turns his head, eyes flicking over his shoulder.
I jolt like I've been caught stealing.
Shit, shit, shit.
My body reacts before my brain does—I flatten myself against the wall, stepping sideways so fast my heel nearly slips on the polished floor. My back smashes against the cool wall, breath trapped in my throat. If he opens that door, if he catches me standing here like some creepy stalker—fuck, I'll never live it down. He'll tell Zayan. I'll be finished.
The silence between us stretches razor-thin. My heartbeat is so goddamn loud it feels like it could echo through the walls, give me away. I press a hand against my chest like I can muffle it, but it's useless. My whole body is thrumming like a fucking war drum.
I count to three in my head. Then five. Then ten.
No movement. No footsteps. Nothing but that scar burning itself into my skull like a brand.
I risk it. Step out from the wall. Every move is careful, calculated, the way you sneak away from a sleeping predator—you don't run, you tiptoe, you pray, you bargain with whatever fucked-up god is listening that you don't step on a loose floorboard or breathe too loud.
My heels whisper against the carpet as I retreat, each step slow as death. Don't look back. Don't even blink. Just move.
The elevator is too far. It feels like miles. My throat aches from holding the breath I can't risk releasing. I swear my knees are shaking, but I keep going. One step. Then another.
Finally, the elevator doors close around me, sealing me off from his room, from that scar, from the danger of being caught. My lungs snap open, dragging air like I've been drowning. By the time I stumble out into the main house, the breath I was holding rips free, shaky, ragged, loud enough to echo in the empty hall.
I lean against the wall, dragging my fingers through my hair, chest heaving.
Holy. Fucking. Shit.
What did I just see?
That scar wasn't just some wound. It was a fucking story. A secret. Something raw and brutal that doesn't belong in Izar's silent, stoic mask. Something no one's supposed to know.
And now it's lodged in my head like a hook.
Zayan trusts him. I like him. But that scar? That scar is a fucking question mark carved into his skin, and I don't know if I'm ready for the answer.
But god help me, I'm going to find it.
I stop dead in the hallway, arms folded tight like they'll keep my brain from exploding out of my skull. Through the massive glass wall of the mansion, the Outhouse sits across the garden like a goddamn secret in plain sight. Smooth edges, cold steel, glowing windows. The whole place is too calm, too pretty—like it's hiding something ugly inside.
And maybe it is.
Because Izar's scar is burned into my head. That fucking slash across his back, wide and merciless, like someone tried to gut him and he just stood there and lived through it. I didn't even get a good look, just a flash—but it's enough to leave me buzzing with questions that feel dangerous to even think.
What the hell happened to him? Who cut him open like that? And why is he still breathing, still here, still glued to Zayan like his shadow?
My jaw clenches. I was literally on my way to knock on his door, ready to pull some manipulative little "let's be friends" stunt, like he'd just… what? Spill? Tell me bedtime stories about Zayan's childhood while sipping tea? God, I'm so fucking stupid.
Izar isn't a man you poke for fun. He's built out of silence, scars, and those eyes that don't give you shit unless you earn it. He's not going to fold just because I decide to smile at him or act curious. And worse? Zayan trusts him. Which means Izar knows things. Knows Zayan in ways I'll never be allowed to.
My stomach twists at that thought. Because if Zayan—Mr. Predator-Eyes himself—lets someone close enough to live in his orbit, then that person matters. And Izar? He clearly matters. Too much.
I press my forehead against the cold glass, staring at the Outhouse like it's mocking me. Like it's whispering, You don't belong here. You won't get answers here.
And maybe it's right.
Still, my mind won't shut up. Zayan hates bodyguards. Mariam said it herself. He doesn't let people boss him around, doesn't tolerate anyone holding a leash. But Izar? Izar's been with him for four years. That's not just survival—that's chosen. That's trust.
And here I am, the idiot wife who sleeps ten steps away from him, still knowing jack shit.
My laugh comes out bitter, loud in the empty hallway. "Yeah, brilliant plan, Arshila. Go interrogate the one man Zayan actually trusts, see how fast you get chewed up and spat out."
I push my hair back, heart hammering against my ribs. The Outhouse glows like it's alive, waiting. But I can't walk over there. Not tonight. Not with Izar's scar still burning in my brain and the weight of Zayan's shadow wrapped around it.
Because here's the truth I don't want to admit: I'm not ready.
Not ready to ask. Not ready to know. Not ready to see how deep this Tavarian rabbit hole goes.
So I stay in the hallway, staring at the Outhouse like it's some forbidden goddamn temple, and tell myself I'll try again tomorrow. Even though tomorrow will hurt worse.
ZAYANS POV
The rooftop's quiet enough to hear the city breathe. My chain drags cold against my collarbone as I lean on the railing, eyes narrowed at the courtyard below.
And then—her.
Walking out of the Outhouse like she just stumbled out of hell. Not striding, not storming—no, her steps are off, clipped, too heavy for her frame. Her face is wrong. Drawn, pale, her jaw locked like she's choking on something she can't spit out.
Interesting.
What the fuck was she doing in there?
The Outhouse isn't a playground. It's not some garden corner she can wander into when she's restless. It's mine. My walls, my shadows, my men. Every inch of that place is calculated. And yet there she is, slipping out of it like a thief—like she saw something she wasn't meant to.
My teeth catch against a laugh, sharp, bitter. Did she go looking for Izar? Of course she fucking did. Who else? Always circling, always sniffing at the edges of me like she'll get to the center by accident. Like Izar—or anyone—would hand her a map straight to my throat.
Pathetic.
Brave.
Both.
I smirk, slow and deliberate, because I know exactly what this is. She's searching. Always. For answers. For masks she can peel off me like layers of skin. She thinks there's a neat little truth waiting underneath if she just digs deep enough.
Sweet, stubborn girl. She doesn't realize—every mask I wear is real. Every version of me is the truth. She can strip me raw and still not know what she's holding.
But what did she see in there? That face—fuck—it's not the look of someone who got brushed off. It's the look of someone who opened the wrong door. Walked straight into a room they can't forget now, even if they want to.
And I want to know. I need to know.
Because if she saw something she shouldn't have, I'll feel it bleed through her. In her silence, her fidgeting, the way her eyes try to avoid mine and fail. I'll pull it out of her, whether she wants to spill or not.
Mariam told me earlier, whispering like her own tongue might betray her. Repeated what my wife asked, all flustered and guilty, like the house would swallow her whole for disloyalty. And when she finally got the words out? God. I laughed. A deep, breathy one that scraped against my ribs.
Because the audacity. The sheer fucking audacity of her. Marching into my shadows, asking my staff about me, as if any of them would dare. As if they'd risk more than their skin to feed her little rebellion.
She has no idea she's playing in my cage.
She doesn't realize—every question she asks, every corner she pokes at, every wall she presses—feeds me. Because I already know she won't get it. Not from the Outhouse. Not from Izar. Not from Mariam. She could set the whole mansion on fire and she still wouldn't touch the truth.
I tilt my head back, let the night wind scrape across my face, smirk carved deeper now. She won't find me in there. She won't find me in anyone.
The only place she'll ever find me is where I let her. And when I decide to let her—when I finally strip the blindfold off and force her to see me—she won't survive it. Not intact. Not sane.
And maybe that's the part I'm addicted to. Watching her dig for fire, not realizing it's already burning her alive.
Should I go to her? Corner her? Watch her jump out of her skin when she realizes she isn't as invisible as she thinks?
Or should I play blind—pretend I didn't see a damn thing from the rooftop, let her chew on her secrets alone?
Where's the fun in that?
There's no game if I'm not in the room. No cage without me closing the door.
I push off the railing, chain tapping once against my chest, and head toward the elevator. The ride down hums low, steady, and my reflection stares back at me from the mirrored walls. Calm. Too calm. A predator before the strike.
The doors slide open, and the universe decides to give me a gift.
She's there.
In the hallway that stretches toward the Outhouse, standing frozen like she's staring down a ghost. The glass walls catch the night glow, throwing silver across her face, and fuck—she looks wrecked. Not physically. No, her body's still intact, still too tempting for its own good. But her eyes? Her jaw? That clenched throat? She's somewhere else. Somewhere she didn't mean to wander into.
And I know instantly—she saw something she wasn't supposed to.
I should smirk. Walk past. But my feet move before thought catches up, silent on marble, carrying me straight to her until I'm right behind her. Close enough the breeze from the open hall stirs her hair and pushes it back against me.
God. Her scent slams into me. Not perfume—not entirely. It's her. Warm skin, a faint sweetness that clings in ways I can't get rid of even when I want to. It's unfair. Criminal. She doesn't even try and she's already in my head, crawling under my skin like a fever I'll never sweat out.
Her shoulders rise, tight, sharp. She feels it—the shift of air, the ghost of presence. My presence. She doesn't turn, though. Brave little liar. Pretending she doesn't know I'm here when her pulse must be screaming in her veins.
And me? My pulse hasn't missed a beat. Slow. Controlled. That's the difference between us—she burns, I wait. She runs, I corner.
God, the way her hair brushes back, strands catching against the breeze then falling against her neck. My fingers itch. To grab, to twist, to hold her still so she can't fucking run from the very thing she's trying not to admit she wants.
I lower my head just slightly, close enough to breathe her in. One second of this is enough to crack the calm I wear like armor. My jaw flexes. My chest pulls tight. Because this—her, here, with that face like she just survived something—is better than anything Izar or Mariam or the entire Outhouse could ever hand me.
She doesn't know it yet, but she's already telling me everything without opening her mouth.
The Outhouse spat her out rattled. And whatever she saw in there? It's mine now. Her secret. Her weakness. Another thread I'll tug until she unravels.
I could speak. Lean in, let my voice slide against her neck and ask something simple, casual—"What are you doing here?" Pretend I'm clueless. Pretend I didn't see her crawl out of shadows she had no business touching.
Or I could stay silent. Just stand here and let her suffocate on the weight of me.
Either way, she'll break first.
Because she always does.
ARSHILA'S POV
What the hell was that?
That slice across Izar's back—it wasn't just a scar. It was a fucking story written in flesh, carved deep like someone meant to ruin him and failed. I can't shake it. My head keeps spinning around it, trying to make sense.
Was it Zayan? Did he do that? No. That doesn't make sense. Mariam said Izar's been Zayan's shadow for four years, glued to him like a second skin. That scar—it didn't look four years old. It looked ancient. Childhood, maybe. Something brutal, something no kid should've survived.
But still—Zayan trusts him. Zayan keeps him close. And I can't stop asking myself: who the fuck do you have to be to earn that kind of loyalty from someone like Zayan Tavarian?
My skin prickles. A heat slides under it, slow, sharp, like someone lit a match just beneath my flesh.
Goosebumps rise along my arms. My stomach knots, not from the scar anymore but from something far worse. Familiar. Dangerous.
He's here.
I don't have to turn. I don't have to look. My body knows before my mind does. Every fucking time Zayan walks into a room, I feel it. A burn. A pull. Like gravity got impatient and decided to drag me down by the throat.
I stare harder at the Outhouse, pretending it's just the wind making my nerves jump. Pretending I'm not seconds away from shivering out of my own skin.
But my shoulders twitch. My chest tightens. My heart drums so hard I can feel it in my tongue.
And then—fuck. I know. I know he's smirking. I can't see it, but I feel it. That curl of lips like he's already two steps ahead of me. Like my little secrets aren't secrets at all, just entertainment for him to pick apart at his leisure.
The air shifts, heavier, tighter.
And then his breath hits my skin.
Warm. Low. Right at the edge of my neck.
It's not even a touch. But it might as well be. Because my whole body reacts like he set fire to it.
I swallow hard, keeping my face forward, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing me break first. But inside? Inside I'm screaming.
Because Zayan Tavarian doesn't need to touch me to own me. He just has to stand behind me and breathe.
The silence strangles before his voice cuts through it—low, sharp, meant to pin me.
"How long you gonna pretend?"
The words slam into me like a fucking hand around my throat. I don't move, don't breathe, just press my nails into my palms until my skin screams.
I force my jaw tight. "Pretend what?"
His steps are deliberate, steady, each one a warning I ignore. He stops close enough that the air shifts. "This," he says, voice flat but laced with something lethal. "That even when you feel me, you act like nothing's there. That I burn holes through your skin and you keep standing there like you're made of stone."
I whip around, eyes locking on his, venom spitting before I can stop it. "I don't feel anything to you."
He doesn't even blink. Just tilts his head, mouth twitching like I've told the funniest lie he's ever heard. Then his arm lifts, hand slamming against the wall by my head, caging me in. My back hits the cold marble, breath strangling in my lungs.
"Did you find anything about me?" he asks, too calm. Not curiosity—mockery. Like he already knows the answer.
My laugh is sharp, ugly. "Don't be oversmart, Tavarian. I will rip that mask off your face. I'll tear every fucking layer until there's nothing left but the truth you're so desperate to bury."
His smirk sharpens, eyes dark. "Rip it off then. Let's see how long you last before you choke on it."
"You think I won't?" I snap, fury spitting fire up my throat. "You think I'll flinch when I see the monster you keep hiding? Newsflash—I've already lived with worse. You don't scare me."
He leans closer, breath grazing my cheek, his voice a blade. "That's your problem. You should be scared. Because when you find what you're hunting, it won't set you free—it'll chain you tighter."
I push against his chest, uselessly. He doesn't move an inch. "And you? You're so fucking scared I'll see you for what you are. That's why you keep circling me like a wolf instead of looking me in the eye like a man."
His jaw ticks, slow blink cutting the air between us. "You think you're clever. You're not. You're just blind enough to mistake your defiance for power."
"Better blind than a coward hiding behind shadows."
His laugh comes low, deep, ripping through me like it belongs in a darker room. "Keep talking, Arshila. Maybe if you scream loud enough, you'll convince yourself you're not already neck-deep in things you don't understand."
"Then enlighten me," I spit. "Show me. Because I swear, I'll drag your secrets into the fucking light if it kills me."
His eyes narrow, heat and ice tangled in them, and for a second I can't tell if he wants to strangle me or just stand here until I suffocate myself.
"You won't like what you see when you dig deeper," he says, voice steady, unshakable.
I bare my teeth, chin high. "Then I'll burn with it. But at least I won't live a lie."
The silence between us thickens, heavy, choking. His hand lingers by my head, muscles taut, and then—finally—he pushes off the wall, stepping back like he's bored of the whole fucking game.
Except he isn't. His eyes linger on me, sharp, dissecting, waiting.
And then his voice drops again, smooth, calculated, the final strike:
"What were you doing in the Outhouse?"
_________________________________________
📍. 📍.
Sneak Peek — Izar's Exclusive Chapter
"I have a match tomorrow."
My hand freezes on the edge of the table. The sound in the hall dulls, like everything else sinks away. Slowly, I turn toward him. His eyes… fuck. They're not scared, not exactly, but they're heavy. Like he already knows what's waiting for him.
"A match?" My voice scrapes, harsh. "Here?"
He shakes his head, quick, sharp, almost bitter. "No. Not here." His fingers tighten on his spoon, white-knuckled. His gaze stays glued to the gray smear in his bowl. "Auction."
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