ZAYAN POV
The hall empties like someone pulled the oxygen out of it.
Clapping turns to chatter, chatter turns to whispers, and whispers turn into silence with teeth.
And I can't get the word out of my head.
Dragon.
Not a metaphor. Not one of his grand "old world Tavarian" lines.
That wasn't a story. That was a fucking signal.
He looked at someone when he said it.
Someone specific.
And I've spent the last ten minutes replaying it in my head like a broken record, trying to catch where the hell his eyes landed.
Because Kamal Rashid Tavarian doesn't waste words. Every syllable has a purpose, a target, a pulse he means to hit.
I know that tone—measured, cold, final. That wasn't showmanship. That was a warning.
The dragon speech was aimed. I just don't know who the fuck it was for.
My jaw ticks.
Something isn't right.
He's calm—too calm.
And when Kamal's calm, it means he already knows what the rest of us are about to bleed for.
Then the words replay in my head—
Soon. It's pretty close now.
He said it like he's already seen it. Like he's not predicting the future—he's written it.
My stomach knots.
What the fuck are you playing at, old man?
What's "pretty close"?
And who the fuck is the dragon?
Because whatever's coming—it's not business. It's not empire politics.
It's war.
And not the kind fought in boardrooms or with stock prices.
The kind that ends with blood on white marble.
And then I hear it.
That voice.
"Mr. Chairman Tavarian."
Everything stops.
The crowd stills like the word itself carries weight heavier than bullets.
I know that tone.
Caius Nathaniel Veridian.
The man who carved his empire out of the bones of his rivals and called it innovation.
The kind who doesn't shake hands—he takes wrists.
CEO of Veridian Group.
Filthy rich. Corrupt as sin. Ruthless enough to scare governments.
But still—not us.
Veridian isn't Tavarian. Never fucking will be.
Their empire was built through theft, manipulation, blackmail—rot dressed in gold.
Ours was built through control, bloodline, precision.
There's a difference between a kingdom and a scrapyard.
But Caius walks in like he doesn't know the difference.
Or maybe he does—and that's why he looks so fucking smug about it.
The crowd parts for him like he's Moses and they're the Red Sea.
That white hair slicked back, dark eyes sharp enough to slice through concrete, a smile that looks too calm to be human.
He moves like someone who's already imagined killing you a dozen times and picked his favorite method.
Kamal doesn't move.
Doesn't blink.
Doesn't even look surprised.
Of course he's not.
He knew Veridian would come.
He's been waiting for it.
The air thickens.
Caius stops at the front, hands in his pockets, posture loose—too loose for a man surrounded by wolves.
Then he says it.
The line that sounds polite on paper but bleeds poison underneath.
"Congratulations on your annual day, Mr. Tavarian."
The room watches like the sentence might explode.
Kamal finally looks up, slow, deliberate, eyes locking on Caius with that smile that isn't really a smile.
The kind that says you're not worth my breath but I'll entertain your existence for sport.
"I was wondering," Kamal says, voice low, smooth, dangerous, "when your congratulations would arrive. I haven't slept in days waiting for it."
A ripple moves through the hall—some laughter, some silence, some people realizing they just witnessed the first strike.
Caius tilts his head, lips twitching. "Ah. So I'm still the reason you lose sleep, old friend."
Kamal's smirk sharpens. "Not lose. Trade. There's a difference. I trade sleep for power. You trade power for sleep."
God
They're not talking business. They're circling each other like two predators sniffing blood.
Caius steps closer, eyes glinting like polished glass. "You still talk like every word you say deserves worship."
"And you still talk like every word you say deserves forgiveness," Kamal fires back, calm as a goddamn guillotine.
The tension cuts through the air so thick it's almost physical.
I can feel it. The pulse of power that vibrates under Kamal's tone—the reminder that this isn't a conversation.
This is a warning disguised as courtesy.
Caius's jaw tightens for a fraction of a second, then relaxes again. "Still bitter about Veridian beating you to the defense contracts?"
Kamal laughs—low, sharp, completely humorless. "Beating? You begged for scraps from a deal I declined."
He leans forward, eyes gleaming with that same quiet cruelty that built this empire.
"Veridian sells to men who want to fight. Tavarian builds the men they're afraid to fight against."
The air goes electric.
Caius's smirk falters for half a heartbeat before it comes back, tighter this time.
He murmurs, "Careful, Kamal. The world's changing. Even dragons burn when the sky catches fire."
Kamal's head tilts.
That slow, deliberate Tavarian tilt that means you've already lost and you just don't know it yet.
"Maybe," he says softly. "But tell me, Caius… when your fire burns out, who do you think made the sky?"
Silence.
Holy fucking silence.
Even the air feels like it's holding its breath.
Caius's lips press together—one flicker of frustration.
Kamal catches it. He always catches it.
"Don't look so tense," Kamal drawls. "You came to congratulate me, remember? Not to confess."
Caius chuckles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "Oh, I don't confess. Not to you."
Kamal leans back, cane tapping the floor once, echoing like a gavel.
"You already did. You just didn't realize it."
They stare at each other like two storms trying to decide which one gets to destroy the world first.
And me?
I just watch.
Silent.
Every instinct in me screaming that whatever this is—it's more than rivalry.
It's a game that's been going on long before I was even born.
And it's not over.
Not even close.
Kamal finally smiles again—lazy, dangerous, victorious.
"Here comes the serpent himself," he murmurs under his breath, just loud enough for me to catch.
Caius smirks. "And the dragon welcomes me still."
"Of course," Kamal replies smoothly. "Every serpent needs a sky to crawl under."
The crowd doesn't get it.
But I do.
This isn't a conversation.
It's a declaration.
And whatever game they're playing—
I just became the next move.
Kamal always called him a serpent.
Never "Caius." Never "Veridian." Just serpent.
When I was a kid, I thought it was about venom. Thought Caius was dangerous because of what he could do. Because he bit.
I was wrong.
Venom kills slow. Serpents don't. They wait. They coil. They study you until they know exactly where to strike.
That's what Kamal meant.
The serpent isn't deadly because of poison—it's deadly because of patience.
And dragons?
Dragons don't wait. They burn.
Caius doesn't know it, but the dragon thing… that's not his story. That's Kamal's. Only Kamal's.
And if he dropped that word today, it wasn't for show. It was a fucking declaration.
If he's talking about dragons again, he's already decided to set the world on fire.
And if he's showing me to it—if he's letting the world see the heir—then he's got a plan.
Something no one can predict.
My chest tightens.
Because that means blood.
Everyone bleeds when Kamal moves a piece. Allies. Enemies. Doesn't fucking matter.
And this time… the board looks like it's already painted red.
I drag a hand through my hair, jaw ticking.
Responsibility feels heavier tonight.
Not the kind that comes with the empire, but the kind that comes with inheritance.
He didn't just build this family on control. He built it on fear. On fire. And somehow, I'm supposed to be the one who keeps it alive.
Fine.
Let them come. Dragons. Serpents. Every old bastard in this room with a title and an ego.
Let them crawl. Let them bite.
I'll burn through every single one if I have to.
My gaze cuts to the stage again.
The five of them are talking now—Kamal, Caius, the Alzirah chairman, Idrakhan, and the Nazrani monarch.
Laughing.
Like they didn't just stare down each other's throats five minutes ago.
Five monsters dressed in tailored suits, pretending they're civilized.
The world sees kings. I see history soaked in blood and betrayal.
They've been like this since their youth—building empires, breaking each other, then toasting over the ashes.
And now their heirs sit in their shadows, trained to carry the same weight, the same hunger.
A low laugh escapes Kamal, that sharp, old Tavarian sound that slices through the noise.
Caius answers with something smoother, quieter. The kind of tone that says he's hiding the knife this time.
I know that sound.
I grew up studying it.
That's the sound right before the world shifts.
Beside me, she moves—barely. Just a breath closer.
Her perfume cuts through the stench of money and sweat and fear. It hits like something alive.
I glance down, and she's looking at me. Confused. Unafraid. Fucking fearless.
"What is he talking about?"
Her voice is soft, but it hits hard.
Because there's no way to explain this without telling her she's standing in the middle of a battlefield disguised as a ballroom.
No way to tell her that the man she just watched smile is the same one who could start a war with a sentence.
I look at her face—at that defiance, that curiosity that never knows when to shut up—and something inside me burns.
Not anger. Not fear.
Just possession. Pure and simple.
Whatever these old bastards are planning, whatever this night turns into—I won't let them touch what's mine.
Not the empire. Not the blood.
And sure as hell not her.
I shift, just enough to block her from the line of sight of the cameras, the flashlights, the watching eyes.
Far enough from the crowd that no one can hear us. Close enough that I can feel her breath on my neck.
She doesn't notice what I'm doing. She never does.
She just stands there beside me like she belongs—like the chaos, the empire, the monsters mean nothing.
I smirk, low, dangerous.
"It's nothing," I say, voice quiet enough that it's only for her.
But my eyes stay on the stage.
On the serpent laughing with the dragon.
On the men who built the world, now old enough to start tearing it apart again.
And in the middle of it all—me.
The heir they're all watching, pretending they don't see.
The next dragon waiting his turn.
Let them talk. Let them plot.
I don't care what game they're playing.
Because this time, I'm not letting anyone take what's mine.
Not the empire.
Not my blood.
Not her.
Not ever.
________
ARSHILA POV
There are snipers.
Actual fucking snipers.
Perched like shadows in every corner of the building—on the balconies, near the chandeliers, even behind those ridiculous Tavarian banners.
Guns gleaming under the spotlights, silent, still, waiting.
I blink once. Twice.
Nope, not hallucinating.
They're real.
Holy shit.
And everyone's just… acting normal. Laughing, sipping champagne, clinking glasses like there aren't literal rifles aimed at them.
What the actual fuck.
Before I can say anything stupid—or die trying to find logic in this circus—his hand wraps around my wrist.
Firm. Cold. Unquestionable.
"Come."
One word. No tone. Just command.
And I move, because my body doesn't ask questions when it's him.
He leads me out of the crowd, down the dim corridor at the side of the ballroom, past the gold drapes and marble pillars, through a door that opens to the estate's back garden.
The air outside is colder.
Quieter.
Almost real.
We stop near a marble bench, away from the light and the noise. He sits, exhales like he's been holding the whole fucking world in his lungs.
I just stand there for a second, staring at him. The loosened tie. The sharp jaw. The kind of tension that doesn't fade even when he's alone.
"You okay?" I ask.
He looks up, one corner of his mouth twitching. "Of course I am."
Sure.
And I'm the Queen of England.
I look away, eyes tracing the dark horizon, the faint glitter of the city lights beyond the estate walls. "You know," I mutter, "after looking at that stage and the old men trying to eat each other alive… life feels pretty fucking unpredictable, huh?"
He doesn't even hesitate. "Not to me."
I turn back, deadpan. "Ish. You always break the mood."
His lips curve—barely. The smallest smirk, the kind that doesn't belong to a man like him. The kind that looks almost shy if you squint hard enough.
And I hate that it's… kind of hot.
Because it's so wrong on him.
The devil shouldn't blush.
Before I can decide whether to punch him or stare longer, footsteps echo from behind.
Three of them.
Loud, cocky, familiar.
"Ah, there they are," a voice drawls, lazy as sin.
I turn and see them—Eshan, Razmir, and Rafaen—looking like the poster boys of rich trouble.
They're still in their suits, ties half undone, grins full of mischief and arrogance.
The Sovereigns.
The heirs of chaos.
Razmir's the first to speak, smirk all teeth and audacity. "You look good."
I roll my eyes so hard it almost hurts. "You sound like every creep in a bar."
Eshan snorts. "Still better than every creep on stage, man. I swear, I'm so fucking irritated with those five fossils."
Rafaen drops onto the opposite bench, stretching his legs like he owns the entire damn estate. "You guys just roasted the planet live on stage. What did you expect, applause?"
Zayan doesn't even look at them. "I don't want to hear this, bitches."
That shuts them up—for like three seconds.
Then they all sit around us, forming this weird half-circle of chaos and power, like some secret board meeting of hot idiots who could bankrupt nations for sport.
Eshan leans toward me, grin wide. "It's your first annual day, right?"
I nod. "Yeah.It's so fucking beautiful, bro," I admit, still half in disbelief. "And—why the fuck do you guys have snipers? Like, plural. Everywhere."
Eshan grins. "To shoot."
I blink. "Shoot what?"
"Depends," he shrugs. "Sometimes paparazzi. Sometimes traitors. Sometimes just boredom."
Razmir laughs, leaning back. "Mostly boredom."
I gape at them, because what the hell kind of answer is that?
These men are either insane or way too rich to care about laws.
Probably both.
Rafaen gives me a small smile—sharp, royal, annoyingly smooth. "Don't overthink it, Arshila. It's just insurance."
"Insurance?"
"Yeah," he says casually. "In case someone decides to die on Tavarian property without permission."
I stare at him. "You're all fucked."
Eshan grins wider. "We know."
They laugh—loud, careless, dangerous.
And Zayan… doesn't.
He just sits there, silent, eyes on the dark sky, one hand draped lazily on his knee, but I can feel it—the tension still coiled under his skin. Like he's calm only because he has to be.
The others keep talking—politics, women, business, god knows what—but my focus stays on him.
On the man who's both part of this world and somehow above it.
"You guys' empire have annual days too?"
The words slip out before I can stop them. I mean—how the hell else am I supposed to process what I just saw? Old men throwing verbal knives on stage, snipers decorating chandeliers, and now these four sitting like they just won Best Mafia Ensemble of the Year.
All three of them look at me at once.
Three sets of dangerously attractive faces—different brands of chaos, same amount of arrogance.
Eshan's brows lift first. "Empire?"
Razmir smirks. "That's cute. You make it sound like a high school function."
Rafaen leans forward, voice smooth, teasing. "We don't call it an annual day, love. We call it a reminder."
"A reminder of what?"
He grins slow. "That every table you see, every man sitting on it—still eats because one of us allows it."
Okay.
That's… mildly terrifying.
Before I can answer, Eshan suddenly squints at Zayan like he just noticed him for the first time.
"Wait, hold up—Zayan, you got a haircut!"
Razmir tilts his head, smirking. "Holy shit, he actually did. Looks cleaner than usual."
Eshan whistles, exaggerated as hell. "Bro, that undercut's doing things. Looks hot as fuck, not gonna lie."
And just like that—my brain short-circuits.
Because yeah. They're not wrong.
That damn undercut is doing things. The sharp fade, the way it carves against the side of his jaw, the strands falling perfectly when he tilts his head—yeah, fuck, it's criminal.
I blink once. Big mistake.
Rafaen catches it, of course he does. His grin spreads like sin.
Zayan finally looks up, dark eyes cutting right into me.
"Does it?" he says, voice low, smooth, like it's not even a question—it's a trap.
My pulse stutters. "What?"
"The haircut." His head tilts slightly, that vein on his neck standing out. "Does it look hot?"
I choke. Literally choke on air. "I—uh—don't know. I don't exactly stare at your face."
Razmir snorts. "Oh really? Then where do you look, sweetheart?"
Fuck.
I shouldn't have said that.
I can feel the heat crawl up my neck like betrayal.
Eshan leans in, grinning like he just smelled blood. "Yeah, come on, Arshila. Enlighten us. Where do you look?"
"I—none of your goddamn business," I snap, crossing my arms like that'll hide the fact that I'm definitely red as fuck.
Rafaen chuckles, the sound all smooth danger. "Ah, defensive. That means below the face then."
"Oh my fucking god," I mutter, glaring at them. "You people are insufferable."
Razmir laughs so hard he almost spills his drink. "Welcome to the club, Mrs. Tavarian."
That shuts them all up for half a second.
Because when he says it—Mrs. Tavarian—it changes the air. Just slightly.
Zayan's eyes flick toward him, sharp enough to cut through marble.
Eshan coughs into his hand like he suddenly values his life. Rafaen just sits back, watching, that knowing smirk playing on his lips.
The tension slides through the space—quiet, thick, electric.
And Zayan… he doesn't move. Doesn't blink. Just stares at me like he's waiting for me to look away first.
I don't.
Not immediately.
Then he says, soft, dark, and way too calm,
"Next time, don't lie."
The others laugh again, trying to diffuse it, but the damage's already done—my pulse's a mess, my mouth dry, and my brain's screaming at me to stop thinking about how hot the fucking undercut actually looks on him.
Because it does.
It really fucking does.
And that's exactly why I don't say a word.
_____________
It's been hours. The event's over. The cameras are gone. The estate's finally quiet.
And I'm still fucking shaking.
I sit by the window seat in our ridiculous room — velvet curtains, golden frames, and a chandelier that looks like it costs more than my entire college degree — and I still can't get Kamal Rashid Tavarian's voice out of my head.
The dragon speech. The crowd. The snipers.
God, the snipers.
I hug my knees and stare out the window. The garden outside still glows faintly from leftover floodlights, guards pacing like shadows. There's probably still some fancy bastard sipping wine downstairs pretending he's not terrified of the Tavarians.
Meanwhile, Zayan's across the room.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, shirt sleeves rolled up, tie gone, top buttons undone, scrolling through his damn phone like the world didn't just almost combust under his grandfather's speech.
Of course.
Because when the planet's on fire, Adam Zayan Tavarian checks his fucking notifications.
I glance at him. Then again. Then again, because apparently I hate peace. His head's bent a little, hair falling to the side from that new undercut, neck all sharp lines and veins. That chain glints at his collarbone, taunting me.
God, he looks like sin. I hate that he looks like sin. I hate that I notice.
And I hate that every time his phone lights up, my brain's like — yep, must be her.
His girlfriend. Or whatever model-slash-influencer-slash-"baby"-calling parasite he's entertaining. Probably texting him:
Missed you today, daddy.
Did your paper wife behave?
Still pretending to love her?
I grit my teeth. "Why the fuck are you always on that phone?"
He doesn't even look up. "Because it's smarter than half the people in this house."
My jaw drops. "You mean me?"
A faint smirk, still staring at the screen. "If the shoe fits."
I throw a cushion at him. He dodges without looking. Of course he does. Tavarian reflexes or some bullshit.
I exhale through my nose, stare out the window again. "Those snipers though."
He hums, still scrolling.
"Like, actual snipers," I mutter. "What the fuck, bro? Who the hell posts armed soldiers on the roof during a family event? That's not 'security.' That's Call of Duty: Billionaire Edition."
Finally, finally, he glances at me. That lazy, slow turn of his head that somehow feels like gravity shifting.
"You're still on the snipers?" His voice drops lower. Amused. Dangerous. "You've got the entire empire flexing in front of your eyes, and your brain's stuck on the rooftops?"
"Yeah, because they had guns, Zayan. Not umbrellas. What, was Grandpa expecting a zombie apocalypse or a coup?"
He chuckles under his breath, shaking his head. "If there ever was a coup, you wouldn't see it coming."
I blink. "That's comforting."
He finally puts his phone down on the bed beside him, leans back a little. "Those snipers are there to kill, Arshila. They're not decoration."
My stomach twists. "Kill who?"
His eyes flick to me. Steady. Unblinking. "Anyone who needs killing."
I swallow hard. "That's… that's not a normal sentence, Zayan."
He tilts his head slightly — that same Tavarian tilt that says careful now. "You still don't get it, do you?"
"Get what?"
"This isn't some charity gala. Tavarians don't 'host events.' They stage territories."
He says it so casually, like he's explaining how weather works. My pulse spikes.
"Territories?"
He leans forward, elbows on his knees, voice low enough to make the room shrink. "Every camera in that hall was a warning. Every guest was a chess piece. Every sniper was a promise. You don't get invited to Tavarian ground unless you're either a threat or leverage."
"God," I whisper. "That's not a family. That's a cult."
He smirks again, faint, like he's enjoying my horror. "No. Cults worship gods. Tavarians make them."
I blink. "Do you even hear yourself when you talk? You sound like a Bond villain."
"Maybe," he says, eyes dragging up to mine. "Or maybe I just grew up learning that the world doesn't move for good men. It moves for dangerous ones."
The way he says it — slow, unflinching — something tightens in my chest.
His eyes hold mine for a beat too long. The room feels heavier. The space between us crackles.
And suddenly it's not about snipers anymore. It's about that fucking haircut. The way the dim light slides down his jaw. The way his chain glints when he breathes. The way his eyes look like they're holding a secret with my name on it.
I force myself to look away first. "You sound like you rehearsed that."
"I didn't."
"Liar."
He chuckles, low, like it's a private joke only he gets. "Believe what you want, Arshila. But Tavarians aren't normal. We don't play safe. We don't sleep easy. And we sure as fuck don't live like the rest of you."
I snort. "Rest of us? You say that like you're not human."
His smirk fades into something sharper. "Sometimes I'm not."
And there it is again — that flicker in his eyes. That dark, unspoken thing that crawls under my skin and refuses to leave.
We're just staring now. No words. Just the quiet hum of tension, thick enough to taste.
My chest tightens. My brain screams look away, but my eyes don't listen.
He doesn't blink. Just slow-breathing, steady, gaze locked like he's reading something off my face.
And then—
Knock. Knock.
The sound slices through the tension like a goddamn knife.
We both flinch.
I push off the window seat, feet soft on the marble floor, and stalk to the door. Part of me wants to slam it. Part of me is curious.
I twist the handle and pull it open.
And there he is.
Rayen Aren Tavarian