In my grandfather's estate, this east wing room is the most beautiful one. I know it. I've known it since I was a boy, since the first time I walked past those windows and saw how the light spilled in, how the roses bled through the glass like they owned the air.
And that's why I picked it.
Not for me.
For her.
The staff had already prepared another—neat, cold, distant, the usual Tavarian arrangement for "guests." But she isn't a guest. She's my wife. And I don't give a damn if it makes the staff scramble or if it looks like I'm pulling rank. She gets this room. Because I know her well enough to know she'll like it. She'll breathe easier here, lose herself in the kind of beauty that makes her forget how much she hates me for a second.
And I want that.
I want her comfortable. I want her stunned. I want her fucking disarmed, if only for a moment, inside walls I chose.
So I stand there, leaning on the doorframe, arms crossed, watching her move through it.
Her mouth parts just slightly as her eyes roam the glass, the roses, the light spilling across the floor like molten gold. She's too busy absorbing it to notice I haven't moved. Her hand trails over the couch, her gaze chasing the balcony like she wants to climb straight into the sunset.
She's caught. Hooked. Exactly like I knew she'd be.
Then—she freezes. It's small. A shift in her shoulders, a sudden drag in her breath, like something just clicked too late in that sharp head of hers.
She turns. Eyes snapping to me, wide.
"Wait. We're sharing one room?"
I don't even fight the smirk. It spreads slow, deliberate, because—fuck yes, wife—you will be with me. Because I want you here. Not across the estate, not out of reach. Right here, where I can see you.
"Yes."
Her jaw drops like I slapped her.
"Why?" Her tone bites. "We don't share a room."
My eyes don't leave hers as I step further in, voice low and calm, the way that pisses her off the most. "We're not in my house. There are people here. I don't want them to think—" I pause, let the weight hang, "—we're anything less than what we are."
She scoffs, sharp and cutting. "I'm not going to sleep with you."
I let the silence stretch, then tilt my head slightly. "Don't."
That one word makes her blink like she didn't hear me right. Her glare sharpens, chest rising like she's about to spit fire.
"Are you—are you fucking serious right now?"
I shrug, calm as hell, because her anger only makes the air hotter. "Completely."
"I want another room."
"No."
Her teeth grit audibly. "Why the fuck not? I want my privacy."
I step closer, close enough that the sunlight throws my shadow across her. "You'll have privacy. In this room. For one week. That's all that matters."
Her laugh bursts sharp, disbelieving. She throws herself onto the bed, bouncing against the sheets like she owns it already, arms spread wide in mock defeat. "Un-fucking-believable. I'm not going to sleep with you."
I tilt my head again, that slight curve of amusement slipping through. "Then sleep on the floor."
Her head snaps up. Her eyes widen, then narrow. And then she barks out a laugh—raw, sharp, disbelieving. "Are you serious, Tavarian? The almighty Adam Zayan Tavarian, heir to this whole goddamn empire, telling me to sleep on the fucking floor?"
My smirk cuts deeper. "If the bed offends you that much, wife—then yes."
The word hangs heavy, thick, sparking between us.
And I can see it in her eyes—the fire, the fury, the part of her that wants to throw something at my head, and the part of her that hates that I make her feel anything at all.
Exactly where I want her.
She props herself up on her elbows, hair spilling like she's been living here forever, and glares straight at me.
"I didn't say I don't want to sleep on the bed," she spits, voice dripping with venom. "I said I don't want to sleep with you."
The corner of my mouth curves before I can stop it. Not a smile. A smirk—sharp enough to cut. "Exactly."
Her brows pinch. Her mouth parts like she didn't hear me right. "What the fuck does that mean?"
"It means," I step closer, deliberately slow, until the sunlight paints my shadow across her legs, "you can sleep on the bed."
"Good." She folds her arms, smug for half a breath.
"And I'll be right there. Beside you."
Her face snaps, like I just slapped her with words alone. "Oh, hell no. You? The great Adam Zayan Tavarian? You're sleeping on the couch."
I arch a brow. "No."
Her jaw drops. "Yes."
"No."
"Yes."
"No."
Her teeth grit so tight I can hear it. "What the fuck is your problem?"
My smirk deepens, sharp, calm, cruel. "It's my bed."
Her laugh comes out broken, incredulous. "Your bed? It's Your grandfather's house, Tavarian. His bed. His fucking estate. Not yours."
I tilt my head, letting her words hang, savoring the fire in them. Then I step even closer, voice dropping low, unshakable. "I'm the heir. Which means it's all mine."
Her scoff is pure acid. "Bastard."
The word doesn't sting. It rolls over me like smoke. She wants it to be an insult, but it just feeds something dark in my chest. Bastard fits. Bastard is easy. Bastard is what she sees—and if it keeps her from looking deeper, good.
I drag a chair out with one hand, lean against it casually like I'm not two seconds away from dragging her off the bed just to prove a point. "The bed stays mine. The couch stays empty."
Her eyes blaze. "You're insufferable."
"And you're loud."
"Fuck you."
"Tempting." My smirk sharpens when she jerks like I slapped her again.
Her glare could cut steel. She grabs a pillow, hugs it to her chest like a shield, and sinks deeper into the bed. "I'd rather sleep with a knife under my pillow."
"Then sleep with both. You'll still wake up beside me."
The silence that follows is thick, pulsing, electric. Her chest heaves, fury shaking her bones. And I stand there, arms crossed, calm as a king, while every nerve in me screams to cross the room, pin her to the mattress, and tear the defiance from her mouth with mine.
But I don't.
I just smirk.
And watch her burn.
ARSHILA'S POV
I sit up straighter, tugging the pillow closer like it's armor. "So… we both want the bed, right?" I throw the question out like a grenade, watching his face for the twitch that gives him away.
He tilts his head, slow, deliberate. "Maybe."
My side-eye hits him hard. "Maybe? Maybe what? Maybe you're a stubborn asshole who can't admit he wants the bed too?"
He smirks like I just said something funny. Typical Tavarian arrogance. "Possibly."
I cross my arms, jaw tight, heartbeat thudding. My brain's screaming—he can't win, I can't lose. I need… leverage. "Fine. Then we toss."
"What?" He blinks like I just spat acid in his coffee.
"We toss," I repeat, voice sharp, no-nonsense. "We write our names on two pieces of paper, fold them, pick one. Whoever's name it lands on sleeps on the couch."
He leans back against the headboard, amused, slow, lethal. "Childish."
I shoot him a look that could slice diamonds. "It's called strategy, you bastard. Get with the program."
I throw myself off the bed with flair and march to the dresser. "Paper?" I bark, flinging drawers open like I'm hunting treasure. Inside, a stack of thick, cream-colored sheets sits waiting. Fancy as hell. Perfect. I tear one carefully in half, hold it out like a peace treaty—or a challenge.
"Write our names," I demand, shoving one piece into his hands.
He narrows his eyes. "I can't."
"Bullshit. Write our names. Now." My glare could set fire to a steel beam.
With a slow, deliberate sigh, he takes the paper. My eyes track every movement as he dips the pen and scrawls our names with that precise, confident hand of his. The kind that makes me grit my teeth and want to punch him—yet, somehow, it's addictive just to watch.
I flop back on the bed, arms draped like a queen surveying her conquered kingdom, and watch him fold the paper into neat squares. My pulse spikes, adrenaline bubbling. He holds them out to me. "Pick one."
I hover my hand, fingers trembling a little—not because I'm nervous, no—but because I want to toy with him. The corner of my mouth quirks up. I grab one, peel it open, and—fuck me sideways—his name stares back.
I laugh. Not a cute laugh. A full-on, evil, triumphant, "I just won the goddamn war" kind of laugh. My voice echoes in the room.
"Zayan." I shake my head, throwing my hair back. "Problem solved, Mr. Heir. Sleep on the couch."
I grab a pillow and fling it at him like a goddamn victory flag.
He blinks at me, slow blink, then—without a word—crosses the room in that silent, predatory way he moves, and settles on the couch like he owns the air.
I collapse back on the bed, chest heaving, heart thudding in pure chaotic triumph. My brain is screaming, my mouth is laughing, and my blood is screaming he's not getting the bed tonight, not by a fucking inch.
I stare at him lounging like some grumpy cat, the corners of his mouth twitching because he knows he's lost, but he's not saying it. I snort, victorious.
"Sleep tight, Tavarian." I mutter under my breath, eyes glinting, plotting my next move in this ridiculous, infuriating, addictive little war we've got going.
I prop my chin on my hand, eyes squinting at him sprawled across the couch like he just conquered it instead of being exiled there. "You okay there? Is it comfortable?"
His head tilts lazily, that vein on his forearm showing as he stretches against the armrest. "It's Visionnaire. Of course it's comfortable."
I almost choke. Of fucking course. Visionnaire. Who the hell casually name-drops an Italian luxury furniture brand while sitting his royal ass on a couch? Bastard probably thinks breathing oxygen is beneath his standards too.
Of course this Tavarian has brands in his DNA. Of course he doesn't sit on anything normal. He probably wouldn't piss in a toilet unless it was custom-built in Milan.
Out loud, I snort. "Cocky much?"
His smirk curves like a knife. "Confident." He lets it linger, like the word has weight. Then his eyes slide to me, dark, deliberate. "And you? Comfortable?"
The way he asks it—like he's not talking about the bed at all—makes my skin crawl in the hottest, most infuriating way. My legs curl up tighter under me before I can stop them.
"Yeah," I snap, hugging the pillow tighter to my chest. "This bed is fine. Perfectly fine."
His brow arches, slow, judging. "Fine? That's what you're going with? Fine?" His voice dips lower, velvet and dangerous. "That bed was handcrafted in Florence. The sheets? Egyptian cotton, thousand thread count. The mattress? Custom-engineered to support every—curve."
I nearly choke again. Did he just fucking say that? Did he really just—
My mouth opens, but nothing comes out.
He leans back on the couch, arms stretched across the top like he owns the air around him. "But sure. Fine works. Fine is what people say when they don't want to admit they're enjoying themselves."
My brain short-circuits. Dirty, filthy thoughts come sprinting in like they've been waiting at the door all day. Enjoying myself? Fuck off. What am I supposed to say, thanks Zayan, the bed supports my curves just right, want a demo? No. No fucking way.
I glare at him, heat crawling up my neck. "You're insufferable."
He tilts his head, slow blink, voice cutting with ease. "And you're transparent."
"Excuse me?"
"You clutch that pillow like it's saving your life. You laugh too hard when you think you've won. And you're blushing now, even though you want to look like you're not."
I freeze. Fuck. My face burns. I slam the pillow harder against my chest, scowling. "You don't know shit."
His smirk deepens, calm, lethal. "I know enough."
For once, I don't have a comeback. My tongue betrays me. My brain is screaming comebacks, but my mouth? Nothing. Just silence.
He notices. Of course he does. His gaze sharpens like he's tasting the victory. He doesn't even need to move closer—just sitting there on that designer couch, dripping smugness, he's already crawled under my skin and parked himself there.
The silence between us is thick, and I hate—absolutely fucking hate—that he's the one who made me shut up first.
My eyes flick around the room again, desperate for a distraction. Anything but him.
And holy shit—it is beautiful. Like unfairly, offensively beautiful. Roses climbing the balcony like they own gravity, the scent of them sneaking in through the open glass doors, sweet and dangerous.
The faint hum of night outside, crickets, maybe the distant sound of water from the fountains below. The ceiling high enough it feels like this room has its own sky.
But none of it—none of it—touches him.
He sits there, every muscle relaxed but still coiled, like a predator who's pretending to nap while listening for footsteps. He's framed by that stupid luxury couch and the glow of the last light bleeding out through the glass, and I fucking hate it—because Zayan Tavarian doesn't just fit into beauty, he swallows it whole. Outshines it. Makes roses and silk and chandeliers look like cheap plastic in comparison.
And the worst part? No other Tavarian looks like him. I've seen them all—polished, sharp, dripping power, sure. But Zayan? He's different. Heaven and hell poured into one set of bones, like God made him while drunk and furious, and decided to make a point. He's too perfect, too sharp, too fucking much—and it's addictive in the most dangerous way.
I'm still staring when I realize the sun's gone. Just like that. The roses outside shift from glowing gold to drowning in shadows, and the estate below lights up in little pockets, warm, golden lamps flickering against the dark. Even the night looks expensive here.
Then he stands. Smooth. Effortless. And somehow heavier than anyone else just existing.
"Get changed," he says, voice calm, sharp enough to cut. "I'll be outside."
It takes me a second too long to process, and then my brain screams. Clothes. Fuck. I'm still in the same damn dress I wore here—wrinkled, travel-worn, uncomfortable as hell. My spine stiffens.
"Oh." It's all I manage, the most brain-dead word in the dictionary.
He doesn't wait for more. Doesn't ask if I need help. Doesn't smirk like he usually does when I trip over my tongue. He just walks to the door, opens it like it obeys him, and steps out. The click of it shutting behind him echoes too loud in the room.
And suddenly it's just me.
Alone.
I fall back against the bed, staring up at the carved ceiling. My chest heaves once, twice. Then the thought hits me like a damn freight train—
How the fuck am I supposed to survive one week of this?
One week of roses and silk and perfection. One week of being in the same room as him. One week of his smirks, his comments, his eyes crawling over me like they can strip me without touching.
A groan rips out of me and I cover my face with both hands. "Fuck."
Because here's the real horror: not the room. Not the Tavarians. Not even this insane family circus I just got dragged into.
It's him.
Adam Zayan Tavarian. Bastard, heir, devil wrapped in angel skin.
And he's mine.
And I'm stuck with him.
For seven. Whole. Fucking. Days.
ZAYANS POV
The door clicks behind me, and I don't stop walking. I can't. If I stay there—if I stay in that room with her sprawled across my bed, glaring and laughing and throwing pillows like she owns the place—I'll lose control.
And it's not the time. Not yet.
My shoes strike against marble as I move down the hall, slow, steady. I could stand still and the weight in my chest would still crush me. She's too much. Always too much.
The way she looked on that bed—fuck. Not posed. Not calculated. Just her. Propped up on her elbows, hair wild, eyes spitting fire while her mouth carved out venom meant for me. And then that laugh. That sharp, evil little laugh when she unfolded the paper and saw my name. Like the devil himself had crawled inside her and whispered burn him alive.
And God help me—I wanted her more in that moment than I ever have.
She looked beautiful. Not polished. Not perfect. Raw. Like she didn't care if she looked insane, loud, vicious. Because that's who she is. And I'd burn down the whole estate before I took that from her.
She thinks this game with the couch and the bed was a win. That she beat me. But she doesn't know—she doesn't know that even if she refused the toss, even if she spat in my face and told me to fuck off, I'd still give her the bed. Every time.
Because I want her comfortable. I want her safe. I want that raw self of hers tearing into me with no filter, no fear.
And that's why—
That's why I wrote my name on both slips of paper.
📍
Exclusive chapter sneak peek
Dominic crouches down, slow, smooth, his boots scraping against the wet concrete. He stops just close enough that his shadow swallows me whole. His fingers curl under my chin, yanking my face up until my neck strains. His grip is iron, digging into my jaw.
"He's that important to you?" he asks, voice low, silk laced with barbed wire.
"Yes." My throat tears on the word, but I spit it anyway. "Yes. He's everything. Please—don't touch him. Kill me instead. Allow him to live."
Dominic studies me. His eyes glint, unreadable, cruel. Then—he laughs. Low, deep, sliding straight into my bones.
And I realize he's not asking to grant mercy.
He's asking because he's just found my fucking weakness.
______________
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