I'm still trying to figure out if I should be more scared of this mansion, or of the man walking beside me—hand clamped tight around mine, smelling like sin, looking like danger, and making every step feel like I'm walking straight into something I won't survive.
We've been walking forever, or maybe it just feels like it because my shawl keeps slipping, my feet are freezing, and he's dragging me like I'm a prisoner he's about to execute at dawn.
Then he goes, out of nowhere, "Do you know how to climb a hill?"
I blink. "What?"
"You know how to climb?" He repeats, dead serious.
I stop. "Are you fucking insane? Does your grandfather's house also come with a hill now? What's next, a volcano?"
He laughs. Actually laughs. Deep, low, and god it's unfair. "No. Just asking."
"Well, then no, I don't."
His eyes flick at me, amused. "Then learn."
And just like that, he's moving, climbing up a slope like it's nothing. Marble gives way to dirt, a few rocks scattered, and I swear this man thinks he's auditioning for a mountain goat role.
I glance back. The house is way behind us now, glowing like a palace dropped from the sky. The gardens are all faint lights and shadows. It's gorgeous, but also creepy as fuck at midnight.
I squint up at him. "Are you seriously going to show me some wicked place up here? Or are you luring me out to finally dump my body? Be honest. What are your true intentions, Tavarian?"
He looks down from the rock he's perched on, smirk pure devil. "Come."
I swear under my breath. The slope isn't huge, but it feels like Everest in slippers. My foot slips once, then again. He watches me struggle, lazy and entertained, like it's the best show he's seen all week.
Then suddenly—he jumps down from the rock, landing soundless like the predator he is. Before I can snap at him, his hands are on my waist.
I freeze. My brain shuts down.
He just… picks me up like I weigh nothing and sets me on the top of the rock. His palms burned into my waist, his grip too firm, too sure.
I can't breathe.
Did he just—?
Did Adam Zayan Tavarian just put his hands on my fucking waist?
He steps back like nothing happened, already climbing up behind me. "Don't drag. Come."
I swallow hard, face burning, heat pooling where his hands had been. "Don't drag, my ass," I mutter under my breath, but I keep walking beside him.
Then he stops. I almost bump into him again. He's staring straight ahead.
"What—" I start, then follow his gaze. And my mouth falls open.
What the actual fuck.
It's like stepping into another world. An outdoor bed, tucked between two massive tree trunks like some kind of secret nook. Green and white floral sheets, pillows stacked soft, a little bouquet of pink and white flowers sitting right there like it's waiting for someone. Overhead, a cascade of white blossoms hang down, forming a roof, catching the moonlight like they were designed for Instagram. The ground is a carpet of tiny yellow and white flowers. The whole thing looks… unreal.
I bark out a laugh, covering my mouth. "Is this real?"
He glances at me like I'm an idiot. "Of course it's real."
"No, seriously, it looks like a Pinterest board mated with a Studio Ghibli movie. How—"
He cuts me off by sitting down on the bed, propping one arm back like he owns the scene. "Sit."
I raise a brow. "Bossy much?"
"Arshila." Just my name. Low. Final.
So yeah, I sit. The mattress dips under me, soft, smelling faintly of roses and something sharp, clean. And when I look up—holy shit—the house looks insane from here. From this angle, with all the lights glowing and the gardens stretched out below, it looks like some enchanted kingdom. The moon is huge, stupid close, like you could reach out and steal a piece.
I whisper, without meaning to, "God, this is beautiful."
He doesn't answer, just watches me with that unreadable face.
Finally, I clear my throat, tearing my eyes away. "Did you build this place?"
His expression twists, offended. "No. Why the fuck would I?"
I blink. "Then who?"
"My grandfather. Kamal Rashid."
I look around again, stunned. "He built this? Wait—so all this… the roses? I mean literally the whole fucking house is drowning in roses—balconies, windows, hallways, even the damn bathroom probably has one shoved in the soap dish. Why?"
For the first time, his face softens. Just a little. He leans back on his elbows, eyes glinting under the moonlight. "Isn't it beautiful?"
I roll my eyes but can't stop smiling. "Yes, it's fucking beautiful. But it's also borderline obsessive."
He smirks. "It's his love for my nana."
I stare. "What?"
"Her favorite flower is rose," he says simply. "So he grew them everywhere. Covered the house in them. Spent his whole life making sure she was surrounded by what she loved." His jaw flexes, voice low, almost fond. "He's a romantic fool. Nobody knows that. His weakness is his wife. That Qureshi queen."
I blink at him, floored. The Kamal Rashid Tavarian, the legend, the iron-spined head of the most powerful family, the man everyone whispers about—weak for his wife. Building a palace of roses just for her.
I shake my head, half-laughing. "So you're telling me the most terrifying man alive is secretly a simp?"
Zayan's mouth curves into a slow, dangerous smile. "Yeah. Don't repeat that unless you want to die."
And fuck me, I'm smiling like an idiot.
I flop back against the pillows, staring at the moon like maybe it'll beam me up and out of this psychotic Tavarian soap opera. But nope—still here. Still next to him. Still trapped.
"So basically," I say, turning my head just enough to catch his profile in the moonlight, "your grandfather is Brad Pitt but obsessed with roses."
Zayan's brow furrows. "Brad Pitt?"
"Yeah." I wave a hand at him like it's obvious. "Your grandfather doesn't even look old. He's like… fucking Brad Pitt with muscles and that stupid handsome face that screams, I could ruin your life and still look hot in a suit. Tell me I'm wrong."
His laugh hits me out of nowhere. Deep. Real. Uncontrolled. He actually laughs.
I freeze for a second because holy shit, that sound. Then my brain catches up and I scowl. "Don't laugh at me, I'm serious."
"You should tell him that," he says, still smirking, teeth flashing.
I gasp. "Nooo. Are you insane? He'd kill me instantly."
"He won't." His voice drops, softer, quieter, and when I glance over, he's already looking at me. Not smirking. Not mocking. Just… looking.
The air gets heavy between us, too heavy. I yank my eyes away fast, clutching the shawl tighter around me.
Then, out of nowhere, he says, "About yesterday."
My chest clenches. I don't move.
"I'm sorry you feel like that," he goes on, voice low, steady, like he's trying not to spook me. "And that you experienced shit in this house that's supposed to be beautiful."
He's talking about Ebrahim. About the fucking mess at dinner.
I stare at the bedspread, nails digging into the floral print. My throat works, but I don't say anything.
"Promise me something," he says.
I snort, covering my nerves with sarcasm. "Oh, here we go."
"I mean it." His voice sharpens, cutting through. "Don't keep secrets from me. Don't make me hear it from another mouth."
I turn my head, finally looking at him. His face is closer than I realized—close enough that the space between us feels dangerous.
I blink, trying to process. Does he actually mean that? Or is this just another Tavarian control tactic, tying strings I can't untangle? My lips part, but no words come out.
He studies my silence, jaw tight.
Finally, I spit out the only thing I can. "But you still almost killed Ebrahim."
His eyes flash, dark. "I didn't. That's the point."
I scoff. "Really? That's your defense?"
"I've never touched him in my life," he says, voice rough, unshakable. "He's five years older than me. Shadin and him always fought, but I never cared. He made me angry more times than I can count, but I let it slide."
"Until now."
"Not this," he snaps. Then steadies himself, eyes locking on mine. "This was different."
I exhale, shaking my head. "I'm fucking confused about you."
He tilts his head, chain glinting against his throat. "You don't know me."
My stomach drops. Because he's right. I don't.
All this—the roses, the hidden bed in the woods, the soft voice when he talks about his grandmother, the violence that explodes like it's nothing, the way he touched my waist like he owned me—it's all pieces, and none of it makes sense.
I don't know which part is the mask and which part is real.
And that? That's the scariest fucking thing of all.
The silence between us is so fucking loud I want to scream just to break it. Instead, I blurt the thing that's been clawing at the back of my skull.
"You ever think your grandfather loves you?"
His head snaps toward me.
I rush on before I chicken out. "I mean… I've seen him. Smiling, laughing, being Mr. Charmer with literally everyone. But with you? Nothing. He talks to you like you're an intern he didn't hire."
He says nothing. For one second, for two, for three—just stares at me like I opened a door I shouldn't.
Then he says, flat, calm, deadly sure: "He loves me more than anyone."
I bark out a bitter laugh. "Bullshit."
His jaw ticks. "If you want to understand that, you have to understand him first."
I shut up. Because I don't understand Kamal Rashid Tavarian. Nobody does. He's like a god dipped in stone and rage, and if Zayan's saying he's the favorite, maybe he means it. Maybe not. I can't fucking tell.
The silence sits heavy again, until he says, almost like a warning: "Tomorrow onwards, this place will be crowded with people."
My brows knit. "Isn't the celebration two days later?"
"Yes," he says. "But the event management team will be here. It'll be chaos."
I hum, biting my lip. Because he's right. The Tavarian annual day isn't a cute family barbeque. It's a full-blown, world-stopping, media-circus spectacle. Headlines. Cameras. A royal circus dressed up as tradition.
Before I can say anything, he turns his head toward me, serious as fuck. "If you see me in a situation you can't handle… what will you do?"
My stomach twists. The way he asks it—it's not casual. It's not playful. His face is sharp, unreadable, eyes drilling into mine like he's testing me.
I swallow. "What situation?"
He doesn't blink.
I force a laugh, nervous, stupid. "Like—cheating? Please. I already know you've got a girlfriend somewhere, bro. That's not exactly a crisis."
His lips twitch, but not into a smile. "Nah. Not that shit." His voice drops lower, rougher. "Maybe something scarier. More than that."
The back of my neck prickles. Scary how? What the fuck does that mean? My throat feels dry, and I can't answer him. I just… sit there, staring, while his words coil around me like smoke.
A breeze cuts through the trees. Cold, sharp, makes me shiver. I clutch the shawl tighter around me, but it doesn't help.
"You cold?" he asks, eyes narrowing.
I shake my head too fast. "No."
"Then what?"
I blurt before I can stop myself. "What are you, huh? Fucking serial killer? Reaper? Or worse?"
The smirk curves his lips. Normally, it's the usual closed-lip, cocky thing he does that pisses me off. But this time—it's not closed. This time, I see teeth. Sharp, white, and for the briefest second, I swear I see fangs.
My whole body locks. My chest squeezes. My pulse kicks into my throat.
"Maybe," he murmurs.
And just like that, another shiver rips down my spine. Except this time, it's not the cold. It's fear. Pure, raw fear.
He notices. Of course he does. His gaze drags over me, sharp and knowing, like he can read every fucked-up thought racing in my head.
"Should we go inside?" he asks, voice too calm, too normal.
I nod, quick, sharp, because words won't come out.
He gets up, easy, graceful. And then—his hand closes around mine. Firm. Warm. Inescapable.
We walk back down the slope, the house glowing in the distance like some glittering monster waiting to swallow us whole.
My heart's drumming so loud I swear it knows something I don't.
___________________
Today's not real. No fucking way.
Every year I'd sit on the couch with my family, our TV flickering as anchors drooled over this event—the Tavarian annual celebration. Like it was a goddamn national holiday. Like it wasn't just one family flexing harder than the rest of the planet.
And now I'm standing in it. Inside it. Living it.
The estate looks like heaven and hell fucked and gave birth to a palace. Chandeliers glowing like stars. Roses everywhere, silk draped over staircases, diamonds practically dripping from the walls. Expensive champagne fountains like it's normal, like liquid gold just runs through their pipes. And the people—fuck. Every VIP you can imagine is here. Presidents. Actual kings. Billionaires. Supermodels in gowns worth more than my entire neighborhood. Photographers flashing like the second coming of Christ.
And me? Standing way the fuck back from the main hall. Like I don't belong. Because I don't.
Beside me, Zayan's in a full black suit. Sharp, clean, dangerous. And fuck—he got a haircut. Undercut, slick, neat, like some mafia king straight out of a nightmare fantasy. My eyes keep betraying me, sliding to his jawline, his neck, that stupid chain glinting against his collarbone.
I tear my gaze away before I combust. "Why are you standing here? Aren't you supposed to be up front? With them?"
He doesn't even look at me. Just scans the crowd like he's watching prey. "No. I'm not."
I frown. "What the fuck do you mean 'no'? This is your family's show. You're literally the heir. Isn't the spotlight like—your thing?"
His mouth twitches, but not into a smile. More like… annoyance. "I don't stand where they want me to. I stand where I choose."
I don't get it. Not even a little bit. But before I can push, the energy shifts.
The crowd hushes. Cameras stop flashing for one stretched-out beat. Then—flash, flash, flash. Blinding, nonstop.
Because he's here.
Kamal Rashid Tavarian. The king without a crown. Zayan's grandfather. The man who looks like he could shake hands with God and God would bow first.
He walks down the aisle slow, deliberate, like every step belongs to history. Black suit tailored within an inch of perfection, cane in one hand but power in his whole spine. Everyone's staring, everyone's worshipping. You can feel the air bend for him.
And beside him—Alyan Tavarian. Zayan's father. Tall, sharp, face unreadable as stone. Like he's carved out of the same brutal DNA.
The cameras go insane. My chest pounds because it feels like I'm watching the earth tilt.
Kamal takes the stage. Microphones aimed. Security men in black stiff as statues. Guests on the edge of their gold-trimmed seats.
I glance at Zayan. He hasn't blinked once. His jaw is set tight, his eyes locked on his grandfather like he already knows something's about to drop.
The old man grips the podium. Clears his throat. The silence is terrifying.
Then—his face hardens. Not the usual charming mask they show on TV. Not the rehearsed politician smile. His expression is brutal, cold, heavy with something I can't name.
And in that moment, I know—he's not here to just give a speech.
He's here to announce something none of us are ready for.
📍 Sneak peek at Next week chapter
"A dragon doesn't wait. A dragon doesn't ask. A dragon doesn't hunt what's already dead. A dragon takes. He burns. He tells the world with his fire that nothing—no king, no army, no god—can tame him. The dragon flies above the throne, not beneath it. He dares the world to blink."
The crowd is spellbound. Presidents leaning forward. Actors holding their breaths like this is Shakespeare. Billionaires staring like he's describing them personally.
Me? I'm frozen. Because what the fuck is this? This isn't a cute bedtime story. This isn't a fable. This is something uglier. Something deeper. Like he's talking about someone in this very room.
___
Starting tomorrow, I'll be dropping exclusive chapters every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday on my private page .
These are the ones I've been keeping close—the scenes that cut deeper, burn slower, and show the sides of them I couldn't fit anywhere else.
If you've been following this story and want to see what really happens behind the walls and between the lines, that's where you'll find it.
Thanks for sticking with me through every twist, every late-night update. You have no idea how much that means.
See you there. Tomorrow onwards we go deeper.