"...fuck. My panties."
I don't even realize I said it out loud until the words slap me across the face and hang in the thick hospital air. My head jerks up so damn fast, hair flying, and there he is—Adam Zayan Tavarian—sitting on his bed like a fucking sin sculpted in stone, dark eyes already on me, like he's posing for a billionaire magazine cover.
And then his voice—low, smooth, sinful as hell—drops like a bomb:
"Having Spider-Man on your underwear… isn't that weird?"
Time. Stops.
I scream—an actual scream that could shatter glass—and clutch the shopping bag to my chest like it's my last shred of dignity.
"You—you pervert! Why the hell were you looking into my things?!"
He doesn't even blink. Doesn't flinch. He just stares at me, all slow-blinked Tavarian arrogance, and says, calm as ever,
"I didn't. It fell. I accidentally saw it when I picked it up. Just a glimpse."
Just a glimpse? JUST a glimpse?!
I whip around so fast my body screams in pain, burying my face into the pillow like I can sink into another dimension. My voice is muffled, strangled, horrified.
"Ayyysshhhhhh! Don't talk to me. Don't look at me. This is so fucking embarrassing."
Silence. Heavy. Hot. I can feel him watching me, his stare like fire licking across my skin. And then—
"But… why is it Spider-Man?"
My head snaps back around, my brain short-circuits. "Shut up!"
He tilts his head—God, why does he always do that?—dark hair sliding across his forehead, one brow raised.
"Still… isn't Spider-Man just a bit…" He lets it hang there, a slow, deliberate smirk curling his lips. "…childish?"
"Shut the fuck up, you pervert!" I yell so loud I swear the monitors beep.
And then—holy mother of every sin—I hear it.
He laughs.
Not a chuckle. Not a tiny amused huff. A real, deep, rich, soul-wrecking laugh that rolls out of his chest like thunder and melts into the air like honey. I swear my heart does a full-body slam against my ribs. My breath catches, my whole body tightens, and suddenly my stupid Spider-Man underwear is the last thing on my mind because—
This man's laugh should be illegal.
I've never heard it before. Never even imagined it. But it's here now, deep and sinful and so damn beautiful I want to bottle it, inject it into my veins, and die happy. I can't breathe. I can't move.
And then I see it.
Something glints when he laughs, just enough for me to notice—sharp, perfect, lethal.
Fangs.
He
has
fangs.
Not the ugly kind. Not like a Halloween joke. No. These are smooth, sharp, sexy-as-sin fangs that peek out just enough to make my brain fry like an egg on hot pavement.
I'm frozen, staring, probably looking like an idiot, but how the fuck am I supposed to act normal when this man has been hiding literal sex-weapon fangs from me this whole time?
He notices. Of course he notices. His laugh slows, dies down, and now he's just… staring back. Head tilted, still as a predator watching prey, voice low and teasing. "What? You're staring."
I swallow hard, my finger trembling as I point to his mouth. My voice is wrecked, uneven. "You… you have… this…"
One corner of his mouth lifts—not fully, but just enough to make my stomach clench. Then, slow enough to ruin me completely, he presses his tongue to one fang, deliberate and devastating. "This?"
My heart straight up forgets its job. My lungs? Dead. My brain? Gone.
It's sexy. So fucking sexy I want to scream. Everything about it—the tilt of his head, the glint of his fang under the hospital light, that sinful tongue against sharp white enamel—it's all too much. My body's on fire, but humiliation slaps me again because—
This man has seen my Spider-Man panties.
Trying to breathe, trying to not pass out, I manage a shaky whisper. "D-does it… hurt? When you bite someone?"
Silence. Heavy. Dangerous. He doesn't blink. Doesn't move. Just watches me like a wolf that's already decided what it's having for dinner. Then, his voice drops even lower, quiet enough to crawl across my skin:
"Wanna find out?"
Oh. Fuck.
Everything inside me stops again. My heart. My breath. My very will to live. It's like the whole room freezes while my blood runs molten hot.
I'm staring at him, lips parted, cheeks burning so bad it feels like a fever, and for a split second—one insane, reckless split second—I think about saying yes.
But I don't. I can't. I whip my head away, clutching the damn bag tighter like it can shield me from the man two feet away who's currently destroying my sanity. "…No."
A low, dark chuckle rumbles from his chest, not as loud as before but somehow worse. It slides over my skin like smoke, curling into every filthy thought my mind is trying to shove into a locked box.
I can't take it. My face is on fire. My heart's pounding so hard it's probably visible through my hospital gown. Desperate, I mutter, "Just… forget about the Spider-Man thing."
Another pause. I can feel his gaze, heavy and deliberate, like he's dissecting my soul one slow heartbeat at a time.
Then, smooth as sin, his voice cuts through the silence:
"…Why?"
And holy hell, he says it like a promise—like he's never going to forget.
"Can you shut the fuck up?" I snap, voice a little too high, cheeks a little too hot.
He doesn't flinch—of course he doesn't. Zayan just tilts his head slightly, that vein on his neck teasing me when he speaks, voice low and infuriatingly smooth. "Do you want me to?"
My mouth opens… then closes. I hate that my brain picks this exact moment to short-circuit.
He slow-blinks, smirk growing. "Huh. I thought girls usually go for something a little more…" His gaze drops, dark eyes shamelessly dragging down my legs until my toes curl under the blanket. "…feminine. Never thought I'd see a superhero on your—"
"I said shut up!" I cut him off, ready to strangle him with the very blanket I'm clutching.
"Okay then." His tone is maddeningly calm, like he's already won something I don't even know I was playing for.
I yank the blanket over my entire body, curling up like a pissed-off burrito, and internally explode.
Ayshhhhhhhhhhhhhh… WHY THE FUCK did I buy these ridiculous panties?! What kind of self-sabotage shopping trip was that? And WHY did Mom have to be the one to find them and brought that specific pair?! Like—what—was there a divine plan to humiliate me for eternity??
And of all people… it had to be HIM who saw them. HIM—with his stupid jawline carved by angels and demons, that chain hanging against his throat like it's a crime, his voice dripping sex like it's an actual weapon. My whole body feels like it's about to combust just because he opened his mouth.
And now—ugh—he's sitting there all calm and hot while I'm losing my damn mind under this blanket, two seconds away from screaming into a pillow. I should be furious because he saw my panties, but my traitorous brain is out here replaying the way his eyes dragged over me like a slow burn. It's disturbing. It's wrong. It's so… fucking… hot.
I bite my fist under the blanket, silently shrieking, Why is he so sexy?! WHY?!
The door swings open without a knock, and every nerve in my body tenses. Izar walks in, and instantly the whole fucking room changes.
Izar's not like the other bodyguards I've seen trailing behind powerful men. No, he's worse. There's this silent dominance about him—like he doesn't need to puff his chest or bark orders to make people shake. He's big, sharp-suited, and his face is all stone—no warmth, no slip of emotion. And yeah… I know him. Met him once here in this very room. Didn't say much. Didn't need to. One look from him and I knew—he's the kind of man who can drag someone to hell and back without raising his voice.
I glance at Zayan, expecting him to crack another smirk, maybe toss a tease to keep embarrassing me about my Spider-Man panties. But no. That teasing bastard is gone. Completely gone.
His face hardens into something else—sharp, lethal, like a blade drawn under soft silk. No more playfulness. Just… Tavarian danger.
Izar steps closer, his voice calm, clipped, professional. "Sir, Mr. Parker isn't cooperating. He's refusing all compromises, insisting on his own set of rules, delaying the progress we need."
Silence.
A long silence that makes the hair on my arms stand up.
Zayan doesn't blink. Doesn't twitch. Just sits there, shoulders relaxed, like he's lounging—but I can see it now. That stillness isn't lazy. It's controlled. Deadly.
I can feel my pulse in my throat, my ribs squeezing tight. Watching them together feels like watching a storm building right in front of me.
Then… his voice.
Low. Rough silk dragging over steel. "Break his rules." A pause—so quiet it feels like the world's holding its breath. Then, even softer but somehow louder: "…finish his stubborn."
My heart jumps. Like, fully yeets itself out of my chest. My breath hitches so hard I almost choke on it.
Izar doesn't blink. No hesitation. "Understood."
And before leaving, his eyes flick to me. Just a quick, cutting look, like a silent warning: you've seen nothing, little Mirza.
The door clicks shut, leaving just me and Zayan.
And holy fuck.
I sit there, frozen, gripping the blanket so tight my knuckles ache. My mind's going insane.
God… GOD… I just yelled at this man, called him a pervert, told him to shut the fuck up… and this is the same man who just, in less than ten words, gave what sounds like a goddamn death order like he's asking for extra sugar in his coffee.
My throat's dry, my palms sweaty, and I can't even look at him. I stare straight ahead, heart hammering against my ribs like it's begging to escape.
Please… please, god, have mercy on me… let him keep thinking I'm just that annoying, loudmouthed girl with bad taste in underwear… not someone who needs to be… "finished" like Parker.
And then another thought hits me like a truck—stupid, humiliating, terrifying:
He's seen my panties. He's seen my fucking panties. Spider-Man-covered, life-ruining panties… and this is the man who says "finish his stubborn" like he's deciding who gets to keep breathing on this planet.
God, if you're listening, let him forget. Let him think I deserve to live, even after that embarrassment.
My chest is burning, my brain screaming at me to stay still. But underneath all that panic… there's something else.
That voice. Those words. The way the teasing softness vanished and turned into pure, cold command.
Fuck… why does the scariest thing about him sound so hot?
---
Zayan's POV
I stay silent. Always do when business calls, but this—this is worse than negotiating with men who think they can outplay me. Saying that in front of her? Letting that side of me slip? Fucking rookie move.
Izar knows I meant it. Finish his stubborn. No second chances. No negotiation. But the second those words left my mouth, I felt it—her stiffening beside me, her heartbeat jumping like a scared rabbit. I don't even need to look to know her wide eyes are on me, finally seeing the part of me the world fears.
And maybe… maybe that's the best thing for her.
Because I can't let her think I'm safe. I can't let her forget who I am when the mask slips. The world bends or breaks when I speak—she just saw that. She needed to see it.
But fuck… a part of me hates it.
Hates that she's probably clutching that blanket like a damn shield. Hates that her pretty mouth is pressed tight to stop a sound. Hates that when she looks at me now, it's not with fire in her eyes but with fear.
I breathe slow, controlled. My face stays carved from stone like nothing happened. Because if I look at her now… if I see that fear in her eyes… I might do something reckless like tell her it's okay, that I'd never hurt her.
But I can't.
So I sit there, silent as sin, pretending it doesn't gut me that she's terrified of me. Pretending it doesn't kill me that her heartbeat still hasn't calmed down.
And maybe that's for the best. Because she's better off afraid of me than knowing what I actually feel when I look at her.
She doesn't speak to me the whole damn day. Not a single word. Not even a glance. Nothing.
And fuck—it's killing me.
I'm stretched out on this hospital bed, pretending I don't give a damn, pretending I'm made of stone like always… but inside? It feels like someone's taking a dull blade to my chest and sawing slow. I'd take her yelling at me, calling me a pervert, anything—just not this. Not this silence that feels like a wall between us.
She's scared of me. I know that. Hell, half the world is, and that's exactly how I built it. But with her… sometimes it slips. Sometimes her fire breaks through and she's herself, unfiltered, not caring that I'm the Tavarian heir, not caring what power I hold.
That's the only version of her I want. The only version that feels like oxygen when I'm drowning.
But tonight, all I have is silence.
I've been staring at the ceiling for hours, running my hand through my hair, trying not to lose my fucking mind because I haven't heard her voice all day. Not once. Not even a snarky insult. And it's eating me alive.
Finally, I snap.
"Turn on the TV." My voice comes out low, rougher than I mean it to, like I've been swallowing glass.
Her head jerks, and she flinches like I just pulled a gun on her. Something twists sharp in my chest.
Fuck. That hurts.
But then… she nods, barely, and for the first time in what feels like forever, I hear her voice. Small. Careful. "O-okay."
I grip the blanket tight to keep myself from reacting, from letting my relief show. She fumbles with the remote, points it at the screen. "Which channel?" she asks, voice still soft, like she's walking on glass.
"Just… put anything you want."
Another tiny nod. "Okay."
She lands on some random drama. Doesn't even check if I like it. Doesn't matter—I'd watch fucking paint dry if it means hearing her speak again.
I watch her instead of the screen. Watch the way her fingers clutch the blanket near her stomach, how stiff her shoulders are, like she's bracing for me to snap. Her eyes stay glued to the TV, not a single blink. She doesn't move, doesn't shift. Just stares.
My chest pulls tight. This isn't her. Not my firecracker. Not the girl who screams at me, cusses me out, fights me every step.
I finally drag my gaze to the screen… and that's when it hits me.
Fuck.
It's some sentimental crap—a grandmother and a little girl on-screen, soft music playing, the grandmother leaning down, brushing the kid's hair from her face, kissing her temple like she's the only thing that matters.
And now I see why her eyes aren't blinking. She's not even watching the scene—she's lost in it.
The silence between us grows heavier. The kind that makes your throat ache.
Then, so quiet I almost miss it, she says, "Can I… turn it off?"
I stare at her, jaw tight. She's still facing the screen, not looking at me, waiting.
My tongue feels thick in my mouth. I should say something, anything, to make this less suffocating, but all I do is sit there like a fucking idiot, watching her shoulders tense.
Finally, I force out, "Okay."
She doesn't hesitate—grabs the remote, clicks it off. Darkness fills the room again except for the faint city lights bleeding through the window.
And then…
She pulls the blanket over her head, hiding her face like she's trying to disappear completely.
I drag a hand down my face and growl low in my throat, chest burning with frustration. Because I know, without a shadow of a doubt…
I fucked up.
I know I fucked up.
Not just a little "oops messed up," but the kind that slices deep and leaves you bleeding quietly in the dark. Because Arshila… she's not supposed to be this silent. She's supposed to be chaos in human form—loud, reckless, throwing words like knives just to see if they stick. She's supposed to be the girl who makes my blood pressure skyrocket just by existing.
But there's another side to her. A side most people will never see because she hides it under that sharp tongue and those crooked little smiles. It's not weakness—it's darker than that. She's been through something, enough to teach her that laughing is safer than breaking. That being bold is easier than being vulnerable.
And right now… she's not even hiding behind that.
She's just gone. Pulled a blanket over herself like she's trying to vanish from the world.
I lie down, close my eyes, try to force myself to sleep, but my chest feels tight as a vice. The city lights outside bleed through the blinds, long stripes of gold cutting through the dark room, crawling up the walls. It's the only light left.
I don't know how long I lay there, just staring at the ceiling, trying not to think about the way she flinched when I spoke earlier. Trying not to think about how much I want to drag that blanket down and see her face again.
And then I hear it.
Soft. Fragile. The kind of sound you'd miss if you weren't paying attention.
A sob.
My eyes snap open like I've been hit with a bullet.
She's facing the other side of the bed, back to me, shoulders trembling slightly under the blanket. She's not wailing. Not making it dramatic. It's quiet, guttural, the kind of cry that slips out when you're trying your hardest to hold it in but your body betrays you.
And it hits me like a sucker punch to the ribs.
I know exactly why.
That stupid drama on the TV. The grandmother. The little girl.
Most people grow up drowning in that kind of love—soft hands brushing your hair, warm hugs that smell like old perfume and fresh-baked cookies, someone calling you my sweet girl like you're the most precious thing they've ever held.
But Arshila?
She's never had that. Not because her grandmother's gone. No—she's alive, very much alive.
But to her… Arshila's invisible.
When I stalked her—I saw it with my own eyes.
They pass each other like strangers in a goddamn train station. No hellos. No glances. No conversations. Like Arshila doesn't even exist in her world.
And for reasons I can't fucking fathom, nobody talks about it. Nobody asks why. Not even her parents.
I could find out in five minutes if I wanted to. I have that kind of power. One phone call and every ugly secret would spill out.
But I don't.
Because I don't want a report. I don't want some security team handing me a file with bullet points explaining why the girl I…
(Yeah. Don't even fucking say it.)
I don't want facts.
I want her. Her voice. Her story. Her truth.
So I just lay there in the dark, muscles coiled tight, every instinct in me screaming to move. To roll over, drag her into my arms, hold her until the sobs stop. Whisper that she's not invisible, not to me, not ever.
But I don't.
I stay still. Clench my fists in the blanket. Bite down hard enough on my tongue that I taste blood.
Because if I touch her now, if I show her how badly I want to take her pain away…
She'll run.
And losing her like that?
That's a nightmare I can't afford.
So I just listen, each quiet sob slicing through me, the sound bouncing off the walls until it feels like the room itself is crying with her. The city lights flicker across her silhouette, outlining her trembling shoulders, the curve of her neck, the way her hair spills like dark ink over the pillow.
I memorize it all—because I know she'll never tell me this moment exists. She'll bury it, hide it under sarcasm and cursing tomorrow.
But me?
I'll never fucking forget.
---
Morning light slices through the blinds when I open my eyes, and the first thing I see is her.
She's already sitting up, cross-legged on the bed, a tray balanced in front of her, spoon in hand. She's eating like it's the most normal thing in the world, like last night didn't happen at all. Like I didn't lie awake the entire fucking night listening to her silent sobs, my chest ripping apart with every sound.
She notices me looking and—God—she just lifts the spoon like it's a toast and grins.
"Good morning, Mr. Owner of this hospital."
I just stare at her. Nothing comes out. My jaw locks, my throat's a goddamn knot.
Because how… how the hell can someone do that?
Her eyes are puffy, rimmed red like she's been through a war, cheeks flushed with the kind of rawness you don't get from sleep. She cried herself out last night, I know it, but now… she's smiling. She's looking at me with that same reckless grin that usually drives me insane—and somehow this hurts more.
I can't hold it. My eyes drop away, stare at the floor, the window, anywhere but her. My fingers flex against the sheets because what I really want to do is drag that stupid tray out of her lap, cup her face, and say stop pretending you're fine when you're not.
Instead, my voice comes out flat.
"You didn't sleep yesterday?"
She looks at me, spoon halfway to her mouth, like I've just asked the dumbest question alive.
"Yes. Why?"
I tilt my head, eyes finally meeting hers again, and it just fucking slips out.
"You look shit."
Her hand immediately flies up, fingertips brushing over her cheekbones, like she's trying to feel the proof of what I just said. There's this tiny pause—like maybe, just maybe, I caught her pretending.
But then she laughs. Light. Careless. A sound that doesn't match the pain in her face.
"Maybe it's just some redness," she says, waving it off like it's nothing.
And I swear to God… watching her laugh it off when I know exactly why she looks like that makes something inside me twist so hard I almost lose it right there.
_______
ARSHILA'S POV
---
He's sitting there looking like sin itself—messy hair falling over his forehead, voice still rasped from sleep, lips wrapped around that damn coffee cup. God, those lips. I want to see his fangs again. Just thinking about it has heat crawling up my neck.
He shifts slightly, the hospital shirt hanging loose on one shoulder, and my breath hitches. My eyes betray me, sliding down to his collarbone where that chain hangs, that strange locket glinting faintly.
It's not even a proper crest—slanted, like someone made a mistake—but somehow it looks indestructible. Strong. Just like him. And it's right there brushing against his skin, and I hate that it's turning me on.
His eyes snap up and catch me staring. Shit. My brain malfunctions, so my mouth blurts the first thing it can grab.
"Ahmm… you know, do you… fear cockroaches? Lizards? Or like… syringe stuff?"
He doesn't even blink, just tilts his head slightly like I've said the most absurd thing ever.
"Do I look like one?"
I can't help it, I snort. "Yes—well, damn… yeah, of course not."
He says nothing, just takes another slow sip of coffee, eyes not leaving mine. My heart's sprinting. I keep eating, trying to act normal, but fuck, his stare feels like it's crawling under my skin.
"You know," I blurt again, anything to break the tension, "I used to have a stalker."
That gets him. His hand freezes mid-lift, coffee cup hovering, and his head turns to me sharply.
"Stalker?" he asks, voice dropping even deeper.
"Yes," I say, leaning in, excitement bubbling because holy hell, finally he's reacting. "Fucking messed up situation. About a year ago, third year of college. One morning I woke up with a bite mark on my neck."
His eyes narrow, grip tightening around the cup. "…What?"
"Bite mark," I repeat, stabbing my spoon into my food for emphasis. "And that's not even the craziest part. When I looked around my room, there was a portrait of me sleeping lying on the floor. Perfect. So perfect nobody believed it was hand-drawn."
He sets his cup down slowly, still watching me like he's not sure if I'm messing with him. "Portrait?"
"Yes!" I throw my hands up. "An actual drawing, like straight out of some creepy movie. And one night, I pretended to be asleep, and guess what? That fucker comes into my room and says—" I deepen my voice, mocking him— "'You look hot when you pretend to sleep.'"
He just stares for a second, voice low. "…Really?"
"Yes, fucking really! And that's not it." I lean closer, whisper-yelling like it's a huge secret. "The fucker even kidnapped my cat! And he was wearing a Ghostface mask!"
His brows pull together, a muscle ticking in his jaw. "…Your cat?"
"Yes, my fucking Boo Boo," I snap like it's obvious.
He blinks once, twice. "Boo Boo? That's a name?"
I clutch my spoon to my chest like he just insulted my child. "Yes! Isn't it cute?"
He nods, slow, a smirk ghosting his lips. "…Yeah. You're weird. Having Spiderman… and a cat named Boo Boo."
"Shut up," I groan, heat rushing to my face. "Okay, listen! I even filed a case and that fucker deleted it—like poof, gone! Who even does that?"
He leans back, still staring at me with that unreadable expression. "Maybe… he's a hacker."
"Exactly!" I slam the spoon down like I've won something. "If I find him, I swear I'm gonna kill him."
His lips twitch, voice dangerously calm. "…Will have to."
"God, you have no idea how scared I was," I mutter, suddenly realizing my hands are clenched.
He finally moves, picks up his coffee again, and says, "It's… a bit creepy. But at least your stalker's talented. Drawing like that… hacking into cops files…" He takes a slow sip. "…Impressive."
I gape at him. "Why are you defending him?"
"I'm not." He shrugs, eyes dark and calm as ever. "Just saying."
---
Zayan's POV
---
She's still talking. Loud, animated, threatening murder with her spoon midair—and all I can think is how goddamn adorable she looks when she's pissed.
And the fact that she's ranting about her stalker? To her actual stalker?
Fuck me, this is better than every billion-dollar deal I've ever closed.
I'm just sitting here, coffee in hand, calm as a saint while inside my mind is pure chaos. She's saying she'll kill the bastard if she ever catches him. "I swear to God, I'll stab that fucker in his sleep," she says, fire in her voice, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.
Because yeah, kitten… kill me.
Strangle me with those small, furious hands of yours. Or—fuck it—those legs would do better. Wrap them around my neck and I'll die a happy man.
Holy shit.
I have to put the cup down because my fingers are gripping it too tight, and one more second, I'm gonna break the damn porcelain.
I glance at her, and she's still going on about filing cases and how the stalker hacked everything. My stalker skills, apparently. She's so close to the truth and yet galaxies away.
She thinks she's scary when she threatens violence. She has no clue how many times I've pictured her doing it… on top of me.
My jaw flexes. I smirk, but not the usual cold one people get from me. No, this one is for her—dangerous, dark, laced with the thought of how I'd gladly let her kill me as long as it means I get to feel every inch of her pressed against me first.
God, it's fucking fun. Watching her spill secrets she thinks are safe because she believes I'm just Adam Zayan Tavarian, the quiet, stoic, untouchable heir.
But no… I'm the shadow in her room. The breath on her neck. The bite mark on her soft skin that nobody else got to see except me.
And she's saying she'd kill me?
Yeah, sweetheart… do it. End me. With those sharp little words, with those nails digging into my skin, with those thighs clamping down—fuck, I'd welcome it.
I lean back against the pillows, chain catching the light as it slides against my chest, and watch her shove another bite into her mouth, oblivious to the storm sitting a few feet away.
If she ever finds out the truth…
I'm not sure if she'll scream, cry, or come for my throat.
But one thing's certain—
I'll still be smiling.
---
Author's Note:
HOLY HELL 😭🔥 This chapter is pure CHAOS—Spider-Man panties exposed, fangs flashing, and Zayan casually ordering someone's death like he's asking for coffee ☕🖤 I'm still wheezing 😂💀
👉 Hit FOLLOW + smash that VOTE button if you're obsessed (you know you are 😈)
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👉 Share with your book-crazy squad so they can suffer too 😏🔥
Tavarian Nation… are we SURVIVING or SIMPING today? 👑🖤