ZAYANS POV
The room's quiet. Too quiet for this house. She's there, back turned like I don't exist, busying herself with something—clothes, books, who the fuck knows. Not even a glance my way. Like I'm furniture.
I lean against the wall, arms crossed, watching. Smirk already pulling at my mouth because she thinks ignoring me makes me smaller.
It doesn't.
"I'm going out," I say finally, voice flat, casual. Like telling her I'm going for a smoke break. "Might come back late."
Her head snaps around. Eyes narrow. "Going out? Now? It's fucking noon, Zayan."
I shrug, tilting my head, letting the smirk sharpen. "So? Noon's a good time to hunt."
She freezes. Blinks. "What?"
"Hunt," I repeat, calm as a fucking Sunday prayer.
Her throat works. She stares like she's waiting for me to crack a joke. I don't. I just keep watching her, patient, the way you watch a rabbit decide if it wants to run into the snare.
Her voice drops, tight. "What are you really?"
I laugh once, low, not amused. Step closer. Just close enough she feels the shift in the air. "I don't know," I murmur, leaning a fraction, "maybe a monster."
She swallows hard, chin lifting anyway, like she thinks that'll keep her above water. "You're not a monster. You're a fucking corporate menace. That's what you are."
The smirk cuts wider. "Whatever you say, princess."
Her jaw tightens. She hates the nickname. Hates the way I throw it at her like a collar around her neck. Which is why I'll keep doing it.
For a second I don't move. Just stand there, watching her like I could etch her outline into my skin. Part of me doesn't want to fucking leave. Part of me wants to stay here, keep pressing until she cracks, until she's looking at me with that fire and not this half-confused, half-scared shit.
But I have to go.
I tear my gaze off her, slow. Force my feet to move. At the door, I stop, glance back one last time. She's still staring, still stiff, still pretending like she hasn't just had her chest cracked open by two words—hunt, monster.
I smirk again, smaller this time. Quieter. Just for me.
Then I pull the door open and step out, the echo of my boots carrying down the hall. Long walk to the end of this wing. My head's already shifting, gears grinding into the night waiting for me. Damien's name bleeding through every thought.
But under it, like a fucking thorn, there's her.
Always her.
The hallways are too damn long in this house. All marble and glass, mirrors pretending to stretch the place bigger than it already is. My boots echo sharp against it, every step like I'm announcing I don't fucking belong under this roof even though I'm the blood that built it.
Izar falls into step a few feet behind me, shadow quiet, steady. He's always there—like my second spine.
I don't look back when I speak. "Today I'm going to put my fucking sign on Damien."
Izar doesn't miss a beat. "Can't you make it quicker?"
I almost laugh. Almost. Instead I tilt my head, half-smirk tugging at my mouth as I push through the last hallway door into the garage. The air hits different in here—cold metal, fuel, polished paint. Every Tavarian's pride on wheels lined up like trophies. A graveyard of horsepower.
"No," I say finally, voice calm but sharp. "Quick doesn't leave scars. I want details. Every. Fucking. Piece of him. So when I drag him down, it's easy. Clean. No one doubts it was me."
Izar nods once. He doesn't argue. He never argues unless he really has to. That's why he's mine.
We stop between two cars—my grandfather's old black Rolls and my father's Aston. Both look like they're waiting for funerals. I slide my hand along the Rolls' hood just to feel the chill before moving on to my own ride parked at the end.
"I'll call you if something goes south," I mutter, checking the keys in my palm. The weight's familiar, grounding.
Izar shifts behind me, his voice dropping. "My phone's gone missing."
That makes me pause. I turn, slow. My brows lift a notch. "What?"
"I don't know how it's gone. Just… fucking vanished. I've been trying to find it."
For a second I just stare at him. Izar doesn't lose shit. He's meticulous, military-minded, and if something slipped? That means someone wanted it.
I hum low, a sound from my throat, not words. My eyes narrow on him like I'm gauging if this is a crack in the armor or just static. He holds my stare steady. Loyal to the bone.
"Hmm," I murmur finally, slow blink, tucking that little piece of information into the drawer in my head I save for things that'll matter later. "Find it. Or find out who took it."
"I'm on it," Izar says, no hesitation.
Good.
I toss the keys once, catch them, then slide into the driver's seat. The leather swallows me whole, familiar, sharp with the scent of money and oil. Engine roars alive under my hand.
Izar leans against the frame of the open garage door, arms crossed, watching me. No goodbye. No stay safe. That's not us.
I give him one last glance, eyes steady, voice low. "Hold the house."
He nods, jaw set. That's it. That's the only language we need.
Then I slam the car into gear, tires spitting gravel as I pull out of the Tavarian garage like the devil himself's got a stopwatch on me.
Noon sun slashes across the hood, too bright for what I'm about to do. My head's already in the hunt. Damien's name's a taste I can't spit out. Today's not the kill. Not yet. Today's just me pressing my sign into his throat, making sure he knows the clock's ticking.
Four days. Then the real hunt starts.
______________
Arshila's pov
The room's quiet now, but not the kind of quiet that feels safe. It's the quiet after a bomb's gone off. My bomb. Him.
It's been what—half an hour? Maybe more. I'm still sitting on the edge of the bed, palms flat on my thighs, staring at nothing like a psycho. The AC hums low. Outside, it's noon sliding into evening, sun leaking through the curtains in long stripes. Warm light but my skin's cold.
"To hunt."
"I'm a monster."
The words are still sitting in my skull like broken glass. Over and over. To hunt. Monster. To hunt. Monster.
I let out a shaky laugh, short and ugly. "Yeah right." My voice sounds weird in the empty room.
He's not hunting. He's not a monster. He's—what? Some rich asshole who thinks saying cryptic shit makes him interesting? Some heir with a god complex and a calendar full of women who actually want to sleep with him? Yeah. That's more like it.
I flop back on the bed, hair splaying across the pillow, stare up at the ceiling fan spinning slow. My stomach twists. "Fucking liar," I mutter. "Going to your girlfriend, huh? Or your friends. Or whoever the hell you really give a damn about."
My hands press against my eyes until I see stars. This is ridiculous. I hate him. He's the man who ruined my life, dragged me into his world like some shiny toy he bought. I don't care where he goes.
So why the hell does my chest feel like it's full of wasps?
I roll onto my side, clutch the blanket but don't pull it up. It smells like him. Expensive soap and something darker. God, I hate that smell. Hate that it feels like a hook under my ribs.
Monster.
I snort out loud. "Monster my ass. You're probably at some rooftop bar, drinking whiskey with your fucked-up friends, bragging about your 'hunt' while some girl's hanging on your arm." My voice cracks on the last word and I want to punch myself.
I push up, sit again, elbows on my knees. The sunlight's moving across the floor, creeping toward me like it's trying to catch me. My heart's still beating too fast.
I drag a hand through my hair. "Get over it, Arshila." My voice is harsh, like I'm trying to slap myself awake. "He's not your problem. He's a rich freak with a savior complex and you're just—stuck."
But my mind keeps circling back. The way he looked at me when he said it. The pause before the words, like he was giving me a warning and a confession at the same time.
And under it all—this ugly, gnawing thought I don't want to name: what if he wasn't lying?
I laugh again, louder, meaner. "Yeah, okay. And I'm the fucking queen of England."
I kick off the bed, start pacing. The room feels too small, like the walls are closing in. My palms are sweating. I check the clock. He's been gone almost forty minutes. My stomach drops again, stupid and involuntary.
I pull the curtains open. The yard's still. His car's gone. The whole wing's too quiet.
I press my forehead against the glass, breathe out slow. "Where the hell are you, Zayan?"
It comes out softer than I want, almost like a plea. I hate myself for it. I hate the fact that he's got me like this—mad, curious, jealous, scared—all at once.
I yank the curtains shut again, hard enough the rings clatter. "Fuck this."
But even as I climb back on the bed, pull the blanket over my head and try to bury the smell of him, my brain won't stop replaying his voice.
"To hunt."
"I'm a monster."
And the worst part?
A tiny, dangerous piece of me almost believes him.
Phone buzzes.
I groan. Throw my arm over my face like that'll block it out. Probably him. Smug bastard finally deciding to drop some one-liner like behave or don't wait up.
I slide the phone closer, thumb swipe. But it's not him.
It's Izar.
come to the west wing east side garden
I frown. Blink at it. What the hell? Izar never texts. He's the type to just show up, lean against a wall until you notice, then say what he wants with that calm-ass voice of his. Texting feels… wrong.
I type back fast:
For what??
His reply is instant, like he's been waiting.
just come on babe
I freeze.
Babe?
The fuck did I just read?
I stare at the word like maybe my eyes broke. My thumb hovers over the screen. Did Izar—calm, serious, stone-faced Izar—just call me babe?
"What the actual shit," I mutter under my breath. "Must be a typo. Has to be. No way in hell he meant that."
Still, my stomach does this weird lurch I don't like. I squint at the text again, like staring harder will make it autocorrect itself back to normal. Nope. Still there. Still babe.
I type, fingers punching the keyboard harder than necessary:
Ebrahim will be there I don't want to face him
The bubble pops up immediately. Dude's fast.
no he won't be there, you don't have to be scared of him i will protect you from everything
I roll my eyes so hard they almost fall out of my skull. "Jesus Christ, Izar." Protect me from everything? What the hell is this, a fucking Marvel audition?
I toss the phone onto the charger and shove away from the bed. "Whatever," I mutter. Out loud. Because apparently, talking to myself is my full-time job now.
The floor's cold under my feet as I step out, door clicking shut behind me. The west wing's a pain in the ass to get to. Long-ass hallways, echoing floors, too many damn paintings on the walls staring like they know your secrets.
And me? I'm walking like some idiot because Izar texted me a three-line cryptic note with a sprinkle of "babe" on top.
I run a hand through my hair and shake my head. "If this man tries to hand me flowers or some dramatic speech, I swear I'm going to throw him into the fucking fountain."
Still, my legs keep moving. Step after step. East side garden. West wing. Long way. My heartbeat won't settle, not because I'm scared—hell no—but because something feels… off. Like the air's too heavy.
I shove my hands in my pockets, huff out a laugh that sounds half-unhinged. "three months ago, I was chilling in my own world, eating instant noodles in peace. Now I'm walking through Tavarian mansion hallways because a six-foot-something human tank texted me babe."
The word keeps circling in my brain like a mosquito I can't kill.
Babe.
Babe.
BABE.
I shake my head again, almost laugh. "Nah. Must've been a typo. That's the only explanation. Man probably meant base or bare or some shit. Babe my ass."
But still—I'm going.
By the time I finally drag myself to the west wing garden, my calves already want a refund.
And then it hits me—wrong fucking direction.
I stop, pinch the bridge of my nose. "East side garden. He literally said east, dumbass." My voice echoes against the stone walls, and I'm already sweating. This place is a goddamn maze. Who the fuck designs a mansion where you need Google Maps just to find grass?
I spin on my heel and start toward the east wing, muttering under my breath like a lunatic. "Of course it's acres. Has to be. Kamal Rashid Tavarian wouldn't build anything under a hundred fucking football fields. No wonder his smug bastard grandson lives on five hundred acres like it's casual. Who the hell owns that much land? Sell one percent of it, you could feed a whole country. But no—gotta keep the fences high and the grass greener than everybody else's."
My laugh comes out bitter, sharp. "Fucking Tavarians. Built different, born rich, born smug."
The path narrows, trees closing in the closer I get to the east side. And instantly… the vibe shifts.
This isn't like the other gardens. No roses, no neatly trimmed hedges, no chirping birds. Just fences and tall, skeletal trees. Air heavy. Quiet in that way that doesn't feel peaceful—quiet in the way that makes the hair on your arms stand up.
I slow down, hesitation crawling up my spine. Feels like the start of a ghost movie. Any second now, some pale girl's going to crawl out from behind a tree with her head twisted sideways.
I bite the inside of my cheek. "Relax. Izar told you to come. Izar. Not a demon. Not a ghost."
I keep walking anyway, even though my body's screaming turn around.
"...Izar?" My voice cracks more than I want it to. I clear my throat and try again, louder. "Izar!"
Silence.
I stop. My heart's slamming so hard it's annoying. The kind of silence here isn't normal silence—it's heavy. Dead. Like the whole place is holding its breath.
"Izar!" I call again, sharper this time.
Nothing.
Fuck this. I'm done. My feet already start to step back, brain screaming that this is stupid, I'm stupid, he's probably not even here—
And then—
A man drops in front of me. Out of nowhere. Dressed in black. Silent until the last second.
I flinch so hard my whole body jerks back, breath shooting out of me. My heart nearly explodes out my ribs.
And then I hear it.
"Princesa."
I freeze. Every muscle. Every vein.
Because I know that voice. I'd know it if I was deaf and only felt the vibration. I'd know it in my sleep, in my nightmares. I'd know it if the world ended and only that sound survived.
It's not Izar.
It's Ebrahim.
And just like that—I know I'm trapped.