ZAYAN — POV
"Adam?" he breathes.
I stop right in front of him, close enough for him to catch the shift in my mouth, the way the smile settles like it belongs there. The room is quiet except for his breathing going thin and stupid.
"It's Zy, Damien."
The name lands heavy. I watch it hit him in real time. His pupils blow wide. His shoulders jerk like he's been slapped from the inside. Fear isn't subtle when it finally shows up. It's messy. Loud. Honest.
"Zy?" he croaks. "Zy—?"
"Yes," I say, easy. "That's correct . The Supreme chief commander of the Black Wraiths."
He screams. Not brave. Not angry. Just raw panic tearing out of his chest like it wants to escape before the rest of him gets buried. The sound echoes off concrete and metal and dies ugly.
"You cheated me," he shouts, spittle flying, eyes wild. "You fucking cheated me."
I laugh. Not loud. Controlled. The kind that makes people feel smaller. "Cheated?" I say, tilting my head. "I never played. You just assumed I was on your side."
He lunges forward on instinct, chains biting into his wrists. His face twists like he wants to tear my throat out with his teeth.
I don't move.
"You know why I did this?" I ask, voice calm enough to make him hesitate. "Because you hurt a girl and walked away like it was a bad investment. Because the system bent for you. Because money wiped your hands clean and everyone clapped like justice happened."
His breathing stutters. Rage tries to crawl up and replace the fear.
"So I got dirty," I continue, stepping closer. "I dragged you down myself. I wore a suit. Smiled. Funded your little dreams. Played Adam. Owner of Falconridge. The guy you trusted."
His eyes flicker. Calculation. Desperation. He's trying to find a crack.
"Relax," I add lightly. "I'm just getting started."
His gaze snaps back to me, shaking now. I can see it in his jaw. In his hands. In the way his confidence bleeds out by the second.
"Adam was never fake," I say. "That part's real. It's Adam Zayan. Adam Zayan Tavarian."
The name detonates.
He goes still. Too still. Like his body doesn't know what to do with it.
"Tav… Tavarian?" he stammers, voice breaking in half.
"Yes," I say. "A Tavarian. The heir, actually."
He laughs then. Sharp. Unhinged. Like he's trying to convince himself this is a joke he can survive. "A Tavarian heir doing justice?" he spits. "What a fucking world."
I smile wider. "Ironic, isn't it?" I say. "That's why I love it. Power pretending it's righteous. Monsters choosing which monsters get to die."
I lean in just enough for him to smell the leather of my gloves. "And it's satisfying," I add, voice dropping. "Ending bastards who think they get to decide whose lives matter."
He scoffs, trying to claw back control. "You Don't have any proof," he says. "You don't have anything."
I hold his stare. Don't blink. Don't rush.
"Oh?" I say softly. "I have everything."
"You can't prove shit," Damien spits, chin lifting like that does anything except show his throat. His voice cracks on the last word, and he hates himself for it.
I don't rush him. I let the silence do the work first. Then I smile, slow and tired, like he's arguing gravity.
"Don't argue, Damien," I say. My voice stays level. Calm always lands harder. "I'm twice smarter than you. I like to flatter myself, but this isn't arrogance. It's math."
His eyes keep flicking to the corners of the room. Doors. Shadows. Anything that isn't me.
"You know what the interesting part is?" I add, taking a step back, giving him space just so I can take it again.
He looks at me like he's finally seeing it. Not anger. Not fear alone. The shape of something wrong. Something that doesn't blink.
I let it sink in before I finish. "You're going to confess everything. To the world. On camera."
He barks out a laugh, sharp and too loud, like he's trying to cut the thought in half. "Through my dead body."
I grin. It comes easy now. "Don't be so cocky, baby. You'll do it because I asked you to. And it won't be nice."
I start walking. Slow circle. Boots quiet against concrete. I don't touch him. I don't need to. He tracks me anyway, neck stiff, breath hitching every time I disappear behind his shoulder.
"I'll take my time with you," I say, voice drifting. "Every part. Slow. SLOW. Painful enough that your brain forgets how to lie. You'll cry loud. You'll beg ugly. You'll wish you were already dead."
I stop behind him. Lean in just enough for him to feel it. "I won't let you."
The chair creaks. His hands shake against the restraints. It's subtle at first, then not. Fear always pretends it's fine until it isn't.
"From now on," I say, steady as a heartbeat, "your god is me. You can beg. You can confess. You can choke on forgiveness all you want."
I step back into his line of sight. "You won't get any."
He starts moving harder now, the panic finally chewing through whatever pride he had left. Tears pool fast, like his body skipped a step and went straight to surrender.
I laugh. Not loud. Not kind. "Don't try so hard, baby. You can't."
His eyes meet mine, wet and glassy. There it is. The moment people like him never think will come. The second they realize power doesn't save you when it's borrowed.
I crouch in front of him. Close enough to watch his pupils shake. Close enough that he can't look anywhere else.
"Fuck," I murmur, more to myself than him. My pulse stays calm. Too calm. "This. This right here. This is what I chase. This is what gets me high."
I tilt my head, studying the tears like data. "The monster tears. The kind that know they won't die quick. Fuck, Damien. It's beautiful."
His mouth opens. Closes. Then the words fall out, thin and broken. "I trusted you."
Something sharp twists low in my chest. Not guilt. Never that. Something older. Colder. The satisfaction of a clean cut.
I smile again. Softer this time. Deadlier. "That's the hottest part," I say quietly. "You trusted me because you thought I was like you. That's where you fucked up."
He goes quiet. No comeback. No fight. Just breathing and tears and the sound of his world shrinking.
I straighten, letting my knees lock, letting the moment stretch until it hurts. I want him to remember this part later. The mercy shaped like delay.
"Relax," I say, rolling my shoulders like this is just another meeting. "You won't die today. I'm not that generous."
His breathing is loud now. Wet. Desperate. I watch it like a metronome.
"I've got a present for you, Damien," I say, casual, like I'm remembering it late.
His head jerks up. Hope flares. Then dies halfway.
I glance at the door. "Bring it."
Metal shifts. A lock rolls back slow. The door opens with a drag that scrapes the room raw. Four of my men step in first. Black gear. Clean lines. Faces erased behind balaclavas. They move like the room belongs to them.
Behind them is the present.
They shove it forward. Harder than needed. Bodies stumble. Someone trips. Skin hits concrete with a sound that carries. Pain leaks out before words do.
I laugh. It slips out easy. Real. "Here's the present, Damien."
He looks. Really looks.
The color drains from his face in stages, like someone turning off lights one by one. His mouth opens but nothing comes out at first. His body starts shaking again, worse than before. Uncontrolled. Like the truth finally reached his spine.
"Your brother," I say, voice even. "Daniel."
Daniel lifts his head. Blood streaked. Eyes still sharp. Still angry. Still stupidly brave.
"And your best friend," I add, nodding once. "Marcus Veinar."
Marcus groans. Tries to push up. Fails. Blood darkens his shirt in places that don't need explanation.
Damien's sound this time is ugly. Loud. Cracked open. "Why?" he screams. "WHY?"
I turn back to him slow. Let him see my face when I answer. "Louder, Damien. I like it loud."
He freezes. Completely. Like he just realized the thing in front of him doesn't flinch. Doesn't blink. Doesn't care.
Daniel and Marcus get hauled up. Rough. Efficient. Chairs scrape. Restraints click. Now all three are lined up. Same room. Same fear. Different flavors.
I step closer to Daniel first. He glares at me like hate might still do something.
"I told you," I say quietly, almost fond. "You'd die with your friends. I keep my word."
Daniel spits blood and gives me a death stare. The real kind. Earnest. I respect it enough to smile.
I wink. "You've got nerve, Daniel," I tell him. "That's why you die first."
He wheezes a laugh and then shouts, raw and furious. "Kill me, you bastard. Fucking kill me already."
I throw my head back and laugh. "Unfortunately," I say, shaking it off, "I'm not done with you."
I glance at the door like I've got somewhere better to be. "I'd make it quick, but I've got a wife waiting. I like my nights efficient."
All three stare at me like they're trying to solve a language they don't speak. Horror. Confusion. Something breaking loose behind their eyes.
I chuckle. Low. "So here's how this goes."
I pace once. Let my boots count it out. "You stay here. All of you. And I make it so cruel you'll pray for the angel of death to show up."
I stop. Look straight at Damien. "He won't."
Silence stretches tight.
"God handed that right to me this time," I continue. "And I'm going to use it. Badly. Slowly."
Marcus finally snaps. "You're a monster."
I don't answer him. I just look. Hold it. Let the weight do the talking. Then I smirk, small and precise.
"I'll be back soon," I say, already turning away. "Until then—"
I nod at my men. "They'll keep you company."
The guards don't smile. They don't need to.
I lift my hand in a lazy wave as I walk out. Three pairs of eyes follow me like anchors dragging.
The door closes behind me with a solid final sound.
I keep the smirk.
Because fuck.
The satisfaction is coming.
_________
ARSHILA — POV
This house has too many fucking hallways.
Not in a rich-wow way.
In a why-does-this-place-need-to-exist way.
I'm walking without a destination, which is usually how bad decisions start for me. The floor under my feet is smooth, silent, expensive. No creaks. No warnings. Just this long stretch of dim light and walls that feel like they're keeping secrets on purpose.
It's quiet.
Not asleep-quiet.
Watching-quiet.
I hate that I notice that.
Two people should not live in a place like this. Two people don't make enough noise to fill it. Every sound I make feels delayed, like the house repeats it back just to mock me. My own footsteps feel borrowed. Like I'm trespassing in my own damn life.
I don't know if Zayan's home.
That's the thing.
You never really know.
There are no obvious signs. No casual noises. No music bleeding through walls. No staff moving around. Just stillness stretched tight over something heavy. Like if I listen hard enough, I'll hear the building breathing.
I rub my arms and keep walking, pretending I'm not mildly freaked out. The architecture helps. Thank fuck for modern money. Clean lines. Glass. Steel. Lights placed too carefully to let shadows do anything dramatic.
If this was old money architecture—
wood panels, portraits, chandeliers, ancestral trauma baked into the walls—
I'd already be running.
Modern means I can lie to myself.
Tell myself nothing bad has ever happened here.
I turn a corner.
And there it is.
The west wing.
I slow without meaning to. My body always does this before my brain catches up. This isn't the first time I've ended up here, pretending I just wandered into it by accident. I've stood in this exact spot more times than I want to admit.
The lighting shifts subtly. Dimmer. Quieter. Like the house lowers its voice here.
At the end of the corridor is the door.
The snake handle.
Gold. Cool. Curved just enough to look like it might move if I'm stupid enough to touch it. I hate how familiar it feels now. Hate that my eyes go straight to it every single time like it's pulling me in by something primitive and reckless.
I stop a few steps away.
I always do.
Curiosity buzzes in my chest, loud and annoying. What's behind it? An office? A vault? Something worse? Something that would explain the way Zayan looks at this wing like it's a boundary line instead of part of his own house?
I imagine opening it.
I imagine regretting it instantly.
Yeah. No.
I'm not the lead in a horror movie. I don't investigate mysterious doors with creepy handles. I like my spine intact. I like not screaming. So I stay right where I am, staring like an idiot at a door that clearly does not want me.
"This house is unhinged," I mutter quietly. "Who the hell needs this many secrets?"
The silence doesn't answer.
Rude.
I shift my weight, suddenly aware of how alone I am. How big this place is when there's no one else in it. How easily someone could be standing just out of sight and I'd never know.
That thought lands wrong.
I turn to leave.
And then—
"Meow."
I freeze so hard my brain straight-up disconnects
.
What.
I blink.
Once.
Twice.
Did I just hear a cat?
In this house?
I turn slowly, heart doing a weird little hop it didn't ask permission for. A cat? Here? I've never seen one. No bowls. No scratching posts. No fur on black furniture. Nothing.
Does Zayan have a cat?