(ZAYAN POV
Knock.
The sound is sharp, unexpected—cuts through the air like a damn blade.
Both of us flinch. Hard.
Her fingers still twist the fabric of her dress. My hand is still hanging mid-air, inches from her face, every muscle in my body coiled too tight. For a second, neither of us breathes.
Our eyes meet.
And fuck.
It's like someone just ripped the world open between us. Her pupils are wide, chest rising and falling like she just ran miles, and I can still feel her breath on my mouth.
Another half-second and I would've kissed her.
And if I had—there's no fucking way I would've stopped.
Four years of restraint—gone. Down the drain. I know it. I fucking know it. One kiss from her and I'd burn everything I've built just to taste her again.
I drag my gaze away first, thumb brushing the chain at my neck—a habit, a goddamn anchor. My pulse's still trying to punch its way out of my throat.
"Who's it?"
The tiny voice cuts through the silence—Rayen's. Whispering like he's in on a secret.
I close my eyes briefly, exhale slow. The universe has a sick sense of timing.
When I open them again, she's still watching me. Still frozen. That same wide-eyed look that's equal parts fear and something she doesn't want to admit.
"Stay," I say quietly. My voice comes out lower than I mean it to.
She doesn't move. Doesn't blink.
I force myself to step back, every inch away from her feeling like punishment, and head to the door. My hand hits the doorknob, still a little unsteady.
I open it.
And there she is—Rayen's mother. Soft smile, tired eyes. "Is Aren here?"
I nod once, voice flat. "Yes. He's here."
Her gaze slides past me, and she spots the kid on the bed, wolf plushie in hand. "Baby, come on. You should go to our room."
Rayen buries half his face in the pillow. "No! I'm sleeping with them."
Of course he fucking is.
His mom sighs, patience thinning but still managing a smile. "If you come, I'll give you chocolate."
Rayen peeks up instantly. "Promise?"
"Promise."
He thinks for a beat, then hops off the bed. "Okay! I'm going, Zay. Sleep well, okay?"
I crouch down to his level, one knee hitting the floor. "Yeah, you too, champ." My hand finds the top of his head, messing his hair just to make him giggle. It works.
Then, without warning, the kid leans forward and plants a kiss on my cheek.
I freeze.
Actual paralysis.
It's ridiculous—it's just a kid—but somehow it hits weird. My jaw locks, and before I can even process it, he's already turning toward her.
"Your turn," he says proudly.
She smiles—soft, the kind that makes my chest ache in places I didn't know still existed—and crouches down, pressing a kiss to his cheek. He grins and immediately returns it, tiny and pure.
And then, like fate's last cruel joke, he turns back to me.
"You should give me one too!"
I almost laugh. Almost. But instead, I just nod slowly. "Yeah, okay."
He tilts his head up, waiting.
I lean in, eyes never leaving her.
And I kiss the same cheek she just kissed.
My lips brush the faint warmth her mouth left there, and it's—fuck—it's too much. Too close. Too symbolic.
She stiffens. Her eyes snap to mine, wide again. I don't look away. Not even for a heartbeat.
Her breath catches. Mine too, if I'm honest.
Rayen just beams, clueless, proud of himself like he's brokered world peace. "Goodnight!" he chirps, waving.
His mom takes his hand gently. "Come on, baby."
And then the door shuts behind them.
Silence again.
Heavy, electric, fucking dangerous.
I stay where I am—still crouched on the floor, hand on my knee, head bowed slightly like I'm trying to get my bearings. Because my pulse is losing its goddamn mind.
When I finally lift my gaze, she's staring at me. Still sitting on the bed, still looking at the door like maybe if she stares long enough, reality will fix itself.
The air between us hums. It's charged, raw. My cheek still burns faintly where the kid kissed me. But it's the phantom warmth of her lips, right next to it, that's driving me insane.
She laughs—kind of. Not the real kind, the fake nervous one she does when she's seconds away from combusting.
"Haha, ha, I should sleep. Ha. Ha."
Her voice cracks right in the middle of it.
She stands up too fast, trips a little on the carpet, mutters something under her breath, then practically dives under the blanket like she's trying to hide from the whole fucking situation.
I just sit there. Watching.
Her movements are clumsy, chaotic, but fuck if she doesn't still look good doing it. That oversized T-shirt clinging to her in the wrong fucking places, her hair messy from showering, still damp, and her scent—don't even get me started on that. That faint vanilla-musk thing she wears, mixing with the shampoo smell, crawling right under my skin like poison I can't detox from.
She pulls the blanket over her head.
I can still see her outline though—the curve of her shoulder, her knees pulled up, her body tense as hell.
I drag a hand over my face and mutter, "Fuck me."
Then I stand.
I don't go near the bed. I can't.
I walk straight to the couch at the far end of the room and drop down, elbows on my knees, head hanging low like I just fought a war and lost.
And maybe I did.
Because what the hell was that?
What the fuck was that moment?
A pretend kiss for a kid—right. Sure. But my body didn't get the fucking memo.
One inch more and I would've ruined everything. I would've lost every shred of control I've been clinging to for four years.
Four years.
Four goddamn years since she first walked into my world, all fire and noise and eyes that didn't know how to look away.
Twenty-one then. Thought I'd seen everything. Thought I'd trained my mind enough to not crave shit I can't have.
And then she smiled. And I've been fucked ever since.
It's not love. I don't even know what the fuck love is. This is different.
It's an ache that won't quit. A hunger that doesn't end even when I've starved it long enough to feel sane again.
She shifts in bed, a tiny sound—like a sigh or maybe a quiet curse—and it's enough to make my spine go tight.
I look up.
Her back's facing me. Blanket still up to her ears. But I can tell she's awake. The way her breathing changes—too fast, too shallow. She's trying to fake sleep.
Cute. Pathetic. Dangerous.
"Go to sleep," I mutter, half to her, half to myself.
No answer.
My eyes stay locked on her for way too long. I try to look away, but it's like she's got her fucking gravity field around me. I can't.
Every damn inch of her is a problem.
The way her throat moves when she swallows. The way her fingers twitch when she's pretending not to care. The way she says my name when she's angry—like she wants to stab me with it and then kiss the wound after.
Addictive doesn't even cut it. She's a fucking drug.
I've seen addicts before. The ones who'd sell their soul for one more hit. That's me, except my drug has a heartbeat and a mouth that won't stop talking shit.
If she knew half the thoughts that go through my head when I look at her, she'd run..
Or maybe she wouldn't. Maybe she'd stare back with that same defiance that drives me crazy.
I drag my hand through my hair, stare at the ceiling, jaw tight.
I could've been addicted to anything else.
Cigarettes. Whiskey. Power.
But no.
My curse is her.
And the fucked-up part?
Even after all this time, even after all the fights, all the hatred, I still won't touch her without her say.
Because no matter how fucked in the head I am, no matter how much darkness I carry—she's the one thing I'd never ruin.
I can break men. I can destroy families. I can burn cities if I want. But her?
No.
Even if I want to tear the world apart for her, I'll never cross that line. Not unless she asks. Not unless she gives me that one silent yes.
Because if I take her without it—I'd really become the monster she thinks I am.
And that's the one thing I can't afford to be.
I lean back, eyes half-lidded, watching the moonlight touch her face through the thin curtain. She's finally gone still. Maybe asleep. Maybe not.
Either way, I'm done pretending.
I'm addicted.
And I'm so fucking tired of acting like I'm not.
_____________
ARSHILA POV
The drive back feels too fucking long and too quiet.
Zayan's hand is on the steering wheel, his jaw clenched, eyes on the road like it personally insulted him. I sit beside him, staring out the window, trying not to breathe too loud. The world outside blurs—trees, signs, city lights—and the silence inside the car could kill a person.
Seven days. Seven days in that mansion that looked like it belonged in a painting—rose gardens, marble floors, the kind of peace that almost makes you forget the world's cruel. And yet, I'm sitting here, half wishing we'd stayed. Half wishing I never went.
Kamal Rashid's mansion had this weird warmth—family dinners, laughter echoing in the halls, the smell of fresh flowers, and Rayen's constant chatter. That kid could melt stone. The way he hugged me before we left, tears on his cheek, whispering, "Don't go, I'll miss you,"—yeah, that fucking broke me.
His parents stood by the door, polite smiles, saying we should visit them sometime. I just nodded, pretending I wasn't dying to get out of there. Because the real reason I wanted to leave was sitting right next to me now, pretending I don't exist.
Zayan fucking Tavarian.
Driving like a demon at two hundred and fifty, one hand loose on the wheel, the other resting near the gear, veins sharp, movements too smooth. He doesn't even look at me once.
Not. Once.
The same man who almost kissed me last night.
I bite the inside of my cheek, hard. That wasn't real. He didn't want to kiss me. He was just—what? Acting for a kid? Playing along? Yeah. That's all it was. Nothing more.
He never wanted me. He never will.
He already has someone, anyway. Whoever she is. Whoever got lucky enough to have the version of him that doesn't make you question your own worth every damn day.
I turn my face away from him, watching the blur of headlights. The air inside feels thick. I can hear the faint hum of the engine, the low growl when he shifts gears, the soft click of his chain against his throat every time his chest moves. I hate that sound. I hate that I notice it.
He's calm. Too calm. And that calm pisses me off more than anything.
He could say something. Anything. But no. He drives like I'm invisible.
I hate him for that.
I hate him for everything.
The road stretches endlessly ahead, the night heavy and warm. He speeds through it like gravity doesn't apply to him. And I swear, for a second, I want to scream. Just to break the silence. Just to make him react. But I don't. Because if he looks at me with that unreadable fucking face again, I might actually break.
When the car finally slows, my stomach unclenches. The gates to our mansion open—tall, black, intimidating as fuck. Home. If you can even call it that.
Before the staff can come around to open the door, I'm already pushing it open myself.
I need air. Space. Anything that isn't him.
The night breeze hits my face as I step out, and I don't wait. Don't even glance back. I walk straight inside, past the long hallway, past the servants who bow silently, up the stairs, and into my room.
The second the door shuts behind me, I finally breathe.
The smell hits first—faint cedar, clean sheets, a bit of sandalwood. God, I missed this place. Seven days of pretending to be fine in that mansion, surrounded by people who smile too perfectly, eat too gracefully, and watch every move like it's theater.
Here, it's quiet.
Still.
Mine.
I throw myself onto the bed, face first, and just… lie there. The silence is heavy but comforting. The sheets feel softer than I remember. The faint hum of the AC mixes with my thoughts—loud, stupid, unfiltered.
I should be happy.
I got through the week. Smiled when I had to. Pretended everything was fine.
But fuck, it's not.
Because even when I close my eyes, I can still see him. That moment last night—his hand near my face, his breath brushing my lips, his eyes dark enough to swallow me whole.
I hate that I wanted it.
I hate that he didn't.
He could've kissed me.
He didn't.
Because he doesn't love me.
And I don't want him to touch me if he doesn't mean it.
I roll onto my back, staring at the ceiling. My heart's still doing that stupid fast-beating thing like it's waiting for him to barge in and ruin me again. But he won't. He never does.
I sigh, dragging a pillow against my chest. The faint ache in my throat won't leave.
I was happy there, in Kamal's mansion. I laughed. Talked. Even sat through dinners with Izar when I felt alone—he's quiet, but at least he talks like a human. Not like Zayan, who just exists in a room and somehow makes the air suffocating.
There were moments—soft ones. The family teasing each other, stories over dinner, Shadin being… well, Shadin. But then there was him. Always him. Always there. Always ruining the peace without saying a word.
I should sleep. I want to sleep.
But my brain won't shut the fuck up.
Every time I close my eyes, I see him leaning in, those eyes dark, his mouth inches away from mine. I can still feel the heat that rolled off him. The way his voice dropped when he said, "Stay."
I press my face into the pillow and groan. "Fuck you, Zayan Tavarian."
Because yeah, maybe I missed this house.
But I didn't miss him.
At least that's what I keep telling myself.
Even though i know that's a fucking lie.
__________
ZAYAN POV
She bolts the second we step inside. Doesn't look back. Doesn't even breathe in my direction.
And fuck if that doesn't tear something open inside me.
I stand there in the hallway, jaw tight, pulse hammering. I can hear her footsteps upstairs—quick, angry, scared. The sound fades, then silence. Just silence. Like she's already erased me from her world.
Good. Let her. Because if I say a single word right now, I'll fucking ruin everything.
I drag a hand through my hair and turn away from the stairs, heading down the west wing instead. My chest feels too small for my lungs. Every breath hurts. Every thought is her.
The corridor's dark, lit only by the soft gold spilling from the wall sconces. My steps echo low and even, but inside, I'm chaos. Pure, unfiltered chaos.
I push open the studio door, the smell of paint and turpentine slamming into me like a punch. It's quiet here. No staff, no noise, no her—except she's everywhere.
I lock the door behind me.
My hands move on their own—unbuttoning my shirt, yanking it off, hooking it on the back of the chair. My skin feels hot, too tight, like I'm burning from the inside out.
The canvas waits. Blank. Mocking.
I grab the brush. My knuckles are white. My veins stand out against my skin, and my pulse won't slow the fuck down.
Her.
That's all my brain gives me. Her face last night. The way she froze when I leaned in, those wide eyes, lips parting like she forgot how to breathe. Fucking hell.
I start to draw. Fast, rough, like I'm trying to claw her out of me and onto the canvas. Lines blur, shapes twist, then suddenly—there she is.
The outline of her jaw. The faint curve of her lips. The chaos in her eyes when she looked up at me.
My hand shakes. My throat tightens.
Every damn stroke feels like I'm confessing something I shouldn't.
Because I remember.
Every fucking second of it.
Her breath hit my mouth before I could stop it. Her pulse jumped at her neck. My name almost slipped out of her lips like a sin.
And if I'd leaned in one inch more, I'd have lost everything.
I stop, drag my fingers down my face, inhale sharp.
She doesn't even know I draw. No one does. I haven't touched a canvas in years. Not since I was a kid. Not since I swore I'd bury that part of me—the soft part. The human part.
But then she happened. And now I can't stop.
I grab another canvas. My body's already moving before my mind catches up. The memory hits—two nights ago. Her. Standing there in that silk dress.
Fuck me.
I can still see it—the black fabric hugging her hips, clinging to her like it was made to test my control. Her hair loose, falling over her shoulder, eyes glinting with something I still can't name. She looked like sin wrapped in softness. And I wanted to touch it. I wanted to tear that silk apart with my teeth and see if she'd still look at me the same after.
My grip tightens around the brush. The strokes turn darker, sharper. I paint the line of her throat, the slope of her collarbone, the faint arch of her back under that damn dress. I remember the way the moonlight hit her skin—silver, warm, unfair.
Every mark feels like a confession I'll never say out loud.
Every shadow feels like a lie I keep telling myself.
I shouldn't be doing this.
But I can't not.
She's the only thing that ever made me feel like I was bleeding and alive at the same time.
And now the canvas looks like her. Too much like her.
The way her lips part when she's about to curse. The way her eyes narrow when she's pretending she doesn't care. The way her shoulders tense when she's trying not to want me back.
I drop the brush, run both hands through my hair, laugh under my breath—low, rough, broken.
"I'm fucking gone," I whisper.
Because I am. Completely.
Addicted. Obsessed. Owned.
And the worst part?
I don't even want to stop.
If she knew—if she saw these canvases, saw what I see when I look at her—she'd run.
But fuck, part of me wants her to.
Part of me wants her to see what she's done to me. To realize that even when she's not in the room, she owns it.
The brush slips from my hand. Paint streaks my fingers, my wrist, my forearm. Doesn't matter. Nothing does.
Because I know what I'll do tomorrow.
I'll walk past her like nothing's wrong.
Like I didn't just spend the night painting the shape of her mouth and the ghost of her skin.
Because that's what she does to me—turns me into someone I don't fucking recognize.
And I'd still choose her again. Every damn time.
Even if it kills me.
By the time I'm back upstairs, it's almost three. The house is dead silent, like it's holding its breath with me.
Her door's locked.
I stand there for a second, staring at it. That little door inside my room. My own fucking design. My curse. I built it because I wanted her close, because I didn't trust the idea of her being somewhere else in this house. Not with my men around. Not with the world outside. Not with anyone breathing the same air as her.
Call it possessive, obsessive, whatever the fuck you want—yeah. I don't care.
Because I am.
I want her where I can see her.
Where no one else can.
My eyes drag over the door again before I pull off my shirt and toss it on the chair. My muscles ache, my head's a mess, and all I can think about is that tiny space separating me from her.
Two doors, one wall. That's it. That's what's between me and the only woman who makes my sanity bleed out like this.
I grab a fresh shirt, throw it on, and fall onto the bed. The sheets are cold. Empty. My jaw tightens. I don't want her to sleep in another room. I want her here, right next to me. Even if she kicks, curses, or stabs me in her sleep—I'd take it. Anything's better than this fucking silence.
I stare at the ceiling for what feels like hours, my body heavy but my mind too awake. Every sound in the room feels loud. My chain clicks softly against my skin when I move. Somewhere, a clock ticks.
Then—footsteps.
Soft. Bare.
I turn my head, heart already thudding in that stupid, dangerous rhythm I hate.
Her door clicks open.
She steps out.
And fuck.
Her hair's messy as hell, like she's been wrestling with dreams. Her eyes are half open, unfocused, and she's got on that loose pajama that hangs off her hips like it's been fighting gravity all night.
I go completely still.
She's quiet—too quiet. Just walking. And I already know where she's going. Bathroom. She always does this. Like clockwork. Around this time, every fucking night.
She mumbles something under her breath, rubbing at her eyes, and all I can do is watch. Like some criminal waiting to get caught.
Her feet pad softly against the floor. She doesn't even glance at me. Just disappears into the bathroom, door shutting behind her.
I exhale slow, drag my hand over my face, and close my eyes. Try to sleep. Try to stop thinking about the way her shirt hangs off one shoulder, the dip of her spine, the little sigh she made before the door shut.
Two minutes. That's all.
Then the bed dips.
Fuck.
My entire body goes rigid.
I open my eyes just enough to look, slow, careful, like I'm afraid the air will break the moment.
She's there.
Right fucking there.
Sleeping beside me .