"What were you doing in the Outhouse?"
Fuck.
The words slice into me like a knife under the ribs. My whole body jerks. How the hell does he—of course he does. This fucker always knows. He doesn't just have eyes, he's got more—everywhere, in every corner, seeing things no one should. Nothing slips past him. Nothing.
I snap my head toward him, spit sharp on my tongue. "It's none of your business."
He steps forward. One clean step, slow as death, voice steady. "Yes," he says, "it is."
My jaw locks. "Move."
"Answer my fucking question first." His tone isn't raised, but it doesn't need to be. It's a goddamn demand wearing calm clothes.
"There's nothing to answer."
That smirk. God, that smirk. It cuts the air between us, cruel and patient. "Nothing?" His head tilts, eyes narrowing, dark gleam settling in.
"See, wife, I don't buy that. You choke too fast. You flare too hard. You don't snap like this unless there's something to snap about."
"Even if there was something," I spit, fire running down my throat, "I wouldn't tell you. You're the last person I'd ever—"
"—trust?" he cuts in, smooth, amused. "Please. You don't even trust yourself. You run around chasing shadows and lies, pretending you're the one in control, when every move you make screams otherwise."
"You're such a fucking narcissist," I hiss. "Not everything revolves around you, Tavarian. Not every door I open is about you."
"Oh, but it is," he murmurs, stepping closer, shadows sliding across his face. "Every time you scratch at a wall, every time you ask a question, every time you lie—you make it about me. Even now. Look at you. Cornered. Lying through your teeth and still burning like I already caught you."
I shove at his chest, hard, but he doesn't even flinch. A wall. Always a fucking wall. "Get out of my way."
His body dips, close enough that his breath brushes my cheek. "Tell me this," he says, voice low, dangerous. "Did you go there to see your friend?"
My throat tightens. He means Izar.
Of course he means Izar.
I lift my chin. "What if I was?"
The smirk deepens, sharper now, crueler. "Then did you see him?"
My eyes slam into his. Those fucking eyes—dark brown but black now, devouring. And in the blackness, a flash burns through me. Izar. That scar. My stomach twists.
"No," I bite out.
He studies me. Smirk carved deeper. "I'm pretty sure he's there. So tell me—why didn't you see him?"
"Why the fuck are you always in my business?" My voice cracks with fury. "Back off, fucker."
His hands lift, mock surrender, eyes never leaving mine. "You're a terrible liar, wife."
I want to stab him. With words. With knives. With anything.
But he's already stepping back—slow, deliberate, unhurried—never breaking eye contact. Not once. Every retreating step is a goddamn taunt, dragging the air tighter around me.
"We'll see then," he says, voice dripping with certainty.
He turns, casual as hell, walking slow, like the whole hallway belongs to him.
My chest is burning, fists clenching so tight my nails cut skin.
And then his voice drifts back, calm, cruel, lethal in its ease:
"Don't be late tomorrow, wife."
I seethe, every cell screaming, my vision red with the need to grab something sharp and bury it in his back.
But he keeps walking. Slow. Untouchable. Smirk in every step.
I stand there, chest heaving, every muscle coiled like I could lunge and drive my nails down his back just to peel that smirk off him.
"Don't be late tomorrow, wife."
The words echo, a fucking curse etched into my skull. Tomorrow. Grandfather's house. One week trapped with all of them—those Tavarian faces carved out of steel, venom in their eyes, judgment sharp as knives.
He walks away like he didn't just detonate a bomb under my skin. Like my fury doesn't even scratch him. Slow, steady, owning every inch of air, leaving me shaking with rage that has nowhere to go.
I grit my teeth so hard my jaw aches, fists still trembling. I don't follow him. I won't give him that satisfaction. Instead, I spin on my heel, storm down the hall, slam my own damn door shut, and lean against it, chest hammering.
Silence presses in, but my head isn't quiet. Not even close.
Tavarian mansion. Tavarian eyes. Tavarian poison.
I can already see it—those faces waiting like vultures, their gaze crawling over me, measuring, dissecting, daring me to flinch. I know I'm walking into a pit that isn't mine, a legacy that isn't mine, a family that eats people alive for sport.
And he—my husband, the devil himself—doesn't give a single fuck if I burn in there. He'll sit back, watch me fight, watch me claw my way through their venom, and smirk like he always does.
And the worst part? I know I'll go.
Because I can't back down. Not from him. Not from them. I'll walk into that house with my chin high, even if every Tavarian eye slices me open. I'll fight every venomous word, every silent threat, every look that says I don't belong.
My body slides down the door until I'm sitting on the floor, hands buried in my hair. I hate him. God, I fucking hate him. Hate the way he moves like the world bends for him. Hate the way he sees everything, knows everything, digs into every corner I try to keep hidden. Hate the way he owns the space around me without even trying.
I push up, rip the comforter back, and crawl into bed like I can bury myself away from him. But even in the dark, I see him. That smirk. Those blackened eyes. His voice telling me I'm a terrible liar.
I shut my eyes so tight stars burst behind my lids. Sleep doesn't come easy.
Because tomorrow, I'm walking into a house full of Tavarians.
And I know I'm doomed.
But bow? To them? To him? To any of them?
Never.
ZAYAN'S POV
The east wing balcony is carved in silence. The kind that doesn't comfort, but prowls—waiting for the first wrong move to sink its teeth in.
My palms sink into my pockets, chain brushing cold against my collarbone as I lean against the rail, eyes cutting through the dark. The estate spreads beneath me like a city of glass and steel, lights scattered like sparks, but all I see is tomorrow.
Tomorrow means my grandfather's house.
Tomorrow means wolves.
They'll circle her. They'll test her. They'll spit venom like it's their birthright. They'll say her name the way some people spit blood. But they forget one thing—venom only works on prey. And she's mine.
They so much as breathe the wrong way near her, I'll cut the tongue out of their mouths and make them choke on it. Family or not. Blood or not. Tavarians who think they can strike me by striking her are about to learn I bite harder.
Footsteps. Steady. Deliberate. I don't need to turn.
Izar.
He stops behind me, as still as the marble under his boots. Always a shadow. Always waiting for permission to move.
"Why did you call me here?" His voice is low, carved out of stone. "Is there any issue?"
My eyes stay on the dark horizon, unblinking. The night hums between us before I cut it clean.
"Did you see her in the Outhouse?"
A pause. Subtle, but there. "No. I didn't. But I feel… she saw me."
My jaw ticks, the corner of my mouth curving—not in amusement, but in recognition. "What were you doing there then?"
"I was changing," he answers without hesitation, shoulders squared like the truth doesn't bruise him.
I hum, deep and sharp, like the sound of a blade testing its edge. "So she did see that."
He says nothing. Silence is his language, and he wields it like a weapon.
I finally drag a hand from my pocket, knuckles brushing against the railing. "She won't ask you anything. I'm sure of it."
"I know," he says, firm.
"Good," I murmur, smirk cutting into the dark. "At my grandfather's house, you'll keep an eye on her. Don't let her out of sight. Not for a second. Understood?"
"I will." No falter. No hesitation.
I turn at last, the night pressing against my back as I stride past him. But just before the marble swallows me whole, I stop. My words drop low, meant to slice deeper than any command.
"That mark on you—" my voice drags slow, deliberate "—that isn't weakness. That's the part that kept you alive. Don't forget it. It's not shame. It's your crown."
Izar's eyes meet mine, still, steady. "I know."
And I believe him.
I leave him there, shadow stitched into the balcony, while I walk back to my room. The night follows me in, heavy and waiting, but I don't care. Because tomorrow, the real storm begins.
And when they try to spit on her, they'll realize they weren't staring at a girl.
They were staring at me.
📍. 📍
SNEAK PEEK TO IZAR EXCLUSIVE CONTENT
________
Panting tears my chest apart. Every inhale drags fire down my throat, every exhale rattles like I'm about to choke on my own lungs. Blood sticks to me everywhere—down my face, soaking my shirt, crawling over my arms like it's trying to claim me. My blood. His blood. Doesn't matter.
He's still standing.
The boy in front of me sways, eyes barely open, face a swollen mess, but his feet are planted on the ground. He's upright. I'm not. My knees are sunk in filth, slipping in the slick mix of dirt and gore under me.
Fuck, it hurts. It hurts so fucking much I can't even tell where the pain starts and where it ends. My ribs? My back? My arms? Doesn't matter. It's everywhere.
The crack comes before the sting.
Then the sting burns like someone just poured fire across my back. I jerk forward, biting down on a scream, but a growl rips out of me anyway, low and feral.
And then I hear him.
Dominic
_______________________
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