ARSHILA POV
"Have you ever seen someone get killed before?"
I go still for a second, my fingers hovering over his arm, my breath catching somewhere between my lungs and my throat.
When I look up at him, he is already looking at me, not like a man asking a question, but like something far more dangerous, like he is opening a door and waiting to see if I am stupid enough to walk through it.
There is no softness in his gaze.
No hesitation.
Just an invitation into something dark enough to ruin me.
"No," I answer finally, my voice quieter than I want it to be.
His lips tilt slightly, not a smile, not even close, just something that makes my stomach tighten.
"Do you want to?" he asks.
For a second, I don't understand the question.
Then I do.
And my entire body freezes.
Who the hell asks that like it is normal? Who sits on a bed, bleeding from a bullet wound, and casually offers murder like it is some kind of experience to share?
It is almost morning, the sky outside starting to shift into that dull gray before sunrise, and he is looking at me like this is just another conversation.
A soft, disbelieving laugh slips out of me. "What, you're going to kill someone and let me watch?"
"If you want," he says, like it costs him nothing. "I will."
My chest tightens.
I don't look at him after that.
I can't.
Because I know if I do, I will see it, whatever lives behind his eyes, whatever makes him say things like that without blinking, and I am not ready for it. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
So I focus on his arm instead.
I finish dressing the wound, my hands steady again, my expression hard, like I didn't just hear him offer to take a life for me.
I secure the bandage tightly, ignoring the heat of his skin under my fingers, ignoring the way he hasn't looked away from me once.
"It's done," I say shortly.
I stand up before he can say anything else, grabbing the first-aid box and turning toward the door like I need distance, like I need air that doesn't belong to him.
I take a step.
Then his voice stops me.
"Do you like his songs?"
I freeze.
Slowly, I turn my head. "Who?"
He doesn't move from where he is sitting, but I can see half his face now in the dim light, shadow cutting across his features, making him look even more dangerous.
"Ares Vance."
My stomach drops.
"What if I do?" I ask, my voice sharper than before.
There is a pause.
Then—
"Then I'll give you a rare chance," he says quietly, his tone dropping into something colder, something that crawls under my skin, "to hear a very beautiful melody of his."
My breath stutters.
Something about the way he says it, the calm, the certainty, the underlying threat wrapped so neatly inside those words, makes my pulse spike hard against my ribs.
I don't answer.
I turn and walk.
Fast.
Out of the room, down the hallway, straight toward the staircase like if I don't get away now, I will suffocate in whatever that room has turned into.
The moment I reach the stairs, I exhale, the breath leaving me heavier than it should, like I have been holding it for too long.
My fingers lift slowly to my lips.
I press them there.
And the memory hits me.
His mouth on mine.
The heat.
The control.
The way it felt like something dangerous had wrapped itself around me and refused to let go.
My chest tightens.
Because I know what he is.
I know exactly what kind of man I just kissed.
And the worst part—
I didn't stop it.
Which probably makes me just as bad as him.
Morning does not feel like morning when I finally wake up. It feels like something dragged me out of the dark and dropped me into light I did not ask for.
My body is heavy, my head slow, and the clock blinking near the bed tells me it is already past noon.
I sit up with a groan, dragging a hand through my hair as fragments of last night come back too fast and too sharp. His voice. His eyes.
The way his mouth felt against mine. I shove the thought away, pushing myself toward the bathroom like I can wash it off.
Cold water hits my face, grounding me for half a second before everything rushes back again. I grip the edge of the sink, staring at my reflection while my lips press together unconsciously.
His lips.
Sweet.
Too sweet for someone like him.
The memory settles in my mouth like something addictive, something I should not want but cannot ignore, and it makes my stomach twist in a way I hate.
"Fuck," I mutter under my breath, squeezing my eyes shut for a second.
And then it hits me.
The gun.
My eyes snap open.
I turn so fast I almost slip, running out of the bathroom and straight toward the bed. My hands tear through the sheets, flipping pillows, checking under the blanket, my pulse rising with every second that passes.
Nothing.
No gun.
"Shit," I hiss, straightening up, my mind already racing. "What the hell did I do?"
I curse under my breath, dragging my hands through my hair again before forcing myself to move. There is no point panicking here. If he took it, then it is already out of my reach.
That thought does not help.
I leave the room and head downstairs, each step heavier than it should be, my mind still stuck somewhere between last night and whatever is coming next.
The dining hall is already set.
The staff moves quietly, placing dishes in front of me the moment I sit down, their eyes lowered, their presence almost invisible.
I pick up the fork without thinking, staring at the food like it might answer something.
Footsteps echo.
I look up.
Izar.
He walks in like he owns the place just as much as Zayan does, his presence calm but sharp, his eyes finding mine instantly. And then—
They stay there.
Locked.
Neither of us looks away.
For a second, all I can see is last night. The way he stood in front of the gun. The way he did not move. Not even when I pulled the trigger. Like he already accepted whatever would happen.
Like dying was not something he feared.
"Did you sleep well?" I ask, breaking the silence, my voice casual in a way that feels forced.
His lips curve slightly. "Because of you," he says, tone smooth, "I did."
I scoff, rolling my eyes as I cut into the food in front of me. "That sounds like a you problem."
He steps closer, slow, measured, stopping just beside the table. "Does the food taste good?" he asks, glancing down at my plate before looking back at me.
I tilt my head, meeting his gaze with a small, sharp smile. "Better than getting shot, I guess."
A low chuckle leaves him, quiet but dangerous. "Fair enough."
He straightens, stepping back slightly. "Eat well, Mrs. Tavarian."
There is something in the way he says it that feels deliberate.
Heavy.
Like a reminder.
He turns to leave.
"Four-seven-five."
The words slip out before I can stop them.
He stops.
Not immediately.
But enough.
Slowly, he looks at me over his shoulder.
I raise a brow, leaning back slightly in my chair. "Why did you stop?" I ask, my voice light, almost mocking. "I didn't call you".
Now he turns fully.
And whatever sits in his expression—
It is not soft.
Not even close.
It is sharp. Knowing. Dangerous in a way that makes something tighten in my chest.
Like he sees exactly what is running through my head.
Like he knows I am already stepping into something I should not.
"Eat well," he says again, slower this time, his gaze holding mine. "You're going to need it."
Then he winks.
And walks out.
I swallow.
Hard.
Because now I know.
Whatever they are planning—
I am already part of it.
My phone rings.
The sound cuts through the silence, sharp and sudden.
I glance down at the screen.
The prince.