EBRAHIM.
Broken. Bandaged. In a fucking wheelchair.
His head slumps to the side, hair matted with dried blood, face swollen to a shade no human skin should ever carry. One eye almost shut, the other glassy. His wrist strapped tight in a brace, ribs bound under layers of bandage visible through his half-buttoned shirt.
Yasmin storms beside him, scarf falling off her shoulder, hand gripping the armrest of his wheelchair like she can hold her fury through her son's bruises. The family doctor walks stiffly on the other side, file in hand, eyes glued to the ground. A staff member pushes the wheelchair toward the center of the yard, where the entire Tavarian bloodline waits.
The sight turns my veins to ice. I can't breathe. My feet won't move.
"ZAYAN!"
Yasmin's scream slices the air.
My chest jerks, heart slamming into my ribs. I glance at him. Zayan. Standing a few steps away, head bowed—scrolling casually through his phone like none of this exists.
I shake. My skin burns cold.
"ZAYAN!" Yasmin yells again, voice breaking with fury.
Still nothing.
I stare at him, helpless, when she screams the third time—"I'm calling you, Zayan!"
This time he lifts his head. Slow. Calm. His eyes meet hers, then flick briefly at Ebrahim's wrecked body. And then—
"Me? Yes, aunt. Why?"
My breath stumbles.
Yasmin's lips curl, disbelief choking her. "Why? You don't know why I'm calling you? You don't know?"
Zayan tilts his head, slips his phone into his pocket. "I'm not a mind reader. You'll have to say it."
Her teeth grind. Her voice rips like broken glass. "You made my son like that, didn't you?"
His eyes lock on Ebrahim. Long. Cold. Then back to her.
"Yes. I did."
The ground sways under me. He said it. Out loud. No denial. No hesitation.
Yasmin staggers back, hand over her chest. "You… you don't even deny it?"
"Why would I?" His voice is steady. Cruel in its honesty.
Her face twists. "You beat the life out of my son for what? For her? For this outsider you brought into our family?" She throws her hand at me, spitting the word like venom.
Something in me snaps, but before I can move, Zayan does.
He steps forward. One, two, three. Now they're face to face, his shadow cutting across hers like a blade.
"Look, aunt," he says, voice dropping to steel. "I fucking respect you as my father's sister. Only for that. But don't think for a second I'll tolerate your bullshit."
Yasmin's eyes widen, fear flashing under her rage.
"She is my wife," Zayan hisses, each word a strike. "My wife. I chose her. Not grandfather. Not my parents. Me. And if any one of you ever call her an outsider again, trust me—you won't have a tongue left to call another. That's my promise."
The yard freezes.
Yasmin stumbles, her voice dropping to a whisper. "What?"
"If she's an outsider," he snaps back, shoulders squared, eyes cutting through her, "then your son, your daughter, your husband—they're outsiders too. Don't forget whose bloodline runs this empire."
Her lips tremble. She can't speak.
And then—laughter. Sharp. Barking. Ravza, Ebrahim's sister, arms crossed, stepping forward.
"Wow. Do you even know what you did, Zayan? Just because you're the heir, you think you can do whatever the fuck you want?" Her voice drips venom. She whirls to me, sneering. "And for what? For her? For some nobody dragged in like a street cat? You ruined everything for this—"
Zayan's hand lifts. Not high, not threatening—just enough to slice her words mid-air. His eyes lock on hers, dark, unblinking.
"I never hit women. But if you talk one more word about her, I'll rip your tongue out and feed it to your dog."
The blood drains from Ravza's face. Her mouth snaps shut.
"Adam."
Kamal's voice, finally. Sharp. Heavy. The kind that weighs.
Zayan doesn't flinch. Doesn't look at him. His eyes still burn through Ravza when he answers.
"I know what I did. And I'll do it again. If someone crosses what's mine, I don't care who the fuck it is. Family or not. Whoever it is."
The last words fall, and his head turns—slowly, deliberately—locking on Shadin.
My stomach twists.
Kamal clears his throat, sharp. "Doctor. His condition?"
The family doctor steps forward, hesitant, voice clipped, professional. "It's severe. Three ribs fractured. His left wrist broken. Internal bruising across the chest wall. His left eye—damaged optic nerve. He will never regain clear vision. He requires immediate surgical intervention for the fractures, and ongoing therapy for the eye. Recovery will be long. Months."
Gasps ripple through the family.
My knees weaken. My eyes drag to Zayan.
He's calm. Too calm. One hand in his pocket, the other fiddling with the chain around his neck, the silver catching the morning light. His face unreadable, lips tilted at the faintest smirk, like none of this chaos belongs to him.
But it does. Every broken bone. Every scream. Every drop of blood.
And I'm terrified of him.
The wheels creak.
The staff rolls Ebrahim forward, his body jerking with every bump on the stone path. They stop right in front of me. Too close. His swollen face lifts, and my stomach flips.
Then—he moves.
He grips the sides of the wheelchair with his good hand, growls through clenched teeth, and pushes himself up.
Gasps tear through the yard.
He crashes down onto his knees, a broken body folding in front of me.
His voice rips out, ragged and wet with pain. "Ah—fuck—"
Yasmin's scream shakes the air. "Ebrahim! What the hell are you doing?!"
I can't move. My whole body is ice. My hands fly to my mouth, choking on the sight.
Ebrahim trembles, veins straining in his neck, his broken ribs making every breath a war. His head bows low. Blood drips from his lip onto the stones.
"I… was wrong." His words stutter through the agony. "Forgive me… for what I said… for how I treated you. I called you names. I didn't see you as… family. I—" his voice cracks, "—I should've. Forgive me."
He shakes, hands clawing the ground like it's the only thing keeping him from breaking apart completely.
"Stop this!" Yasmin shrieks, tears streaming, stepping forward. "Ebrahim, stop! You'll kill yourself!"
But he doesn't. His body collapses sideways with a sick thud. The sound slices through me.
I stagger back, hand over my mouth, vision swimming.
Yasmin drops to the ground, clutching his head. "No! Ebrahim! Stay with me—somebody fucking help him!"
The staff scramble, lifting his body, rushing him inside. Yasmin stumbles after them, Ravza dragging at her arm, the doctor hurrying with his file pressed to his chest. Their screams fade into the house.
Silence swallows the yard.
I can't breathe. My pulse hammers against my ribs. My skin is cold and wet.
Everyone else just… stands there. No one moves. No one fucking says anything.
The yard is dead quiet.
No footsteps. No yelling. Just the sound of birds somewhere too far away to matter.
My stomach is knotted, lungs clawing for air. Ebrahim's blood is still smeared across the stones. I can see it. Dark. Wet. Fresh.
And Zayan—he hasn't moved. He's still standing there like a statue, chain sliding between his fingers, eyes lowered, unreadable. He's the one who did this. Every fracture. Every bruise. Every fucking scream that came out of Ebrahim's mouth.
And yet—he looks like he's bored.
My chest twists. God. It almost feels like it would've been better if he killed him outright than leave him breathing like that.
Then Kamal shifts in his chair. No panic, no outrage. Just slow, deliberate. He sits back, folds his hands over his cane, and clears his throat.
"Enough." His voice cuts the silence clean. "Sit. Eat."
That's it. That's all he says.
My knees almost give out. Eat? After that?
The staff bring trays, setting plates like nothing happened. Alyan pulls out his chair, Rania sits down, even Maireen starts buttering bread. The family moves like a machine, trained for this kind of horror.
I can't move. I don't know if I should run, scream, or just fucking faint. My legs carry me on their own, slow, robotic, until I'm in my chair. My hands tremble on my lap, my throat dry.
Kamal looks around, calm as ever. "Breakfast."
I grip the edge of the table, pulse thundering in my ears.
Everyone starts eating. Just like that. Clinking cutlery, sipping tea. A normal Tavarian morning.
Except my head won't stop spinning.
Zayan finally sits down across from me. He pours himself coffee, slow and steady. His movements are clean, practiced, like he's done this a thousand times. He doesn't even glance at me, not once, just sips and sets the cup down. Calm. Controlled.
Like the blood in the yard doesn't belong to him. Like the apology on Ebrahim's knees never happened.
I stare at him, terrified, because this is who he really is. The monster I'm married to.
And the worst part?
No one else looks surprised.
-----------------------
I can't sit still.
The room feels too small, walls pressing in, air thick with what I just saw. I keep pacing from one end to the other, my bare feet dragging over the rug. My hands won't stop shaking.
The door clicks.
I whip my head. Zayan steps in, shuts it behind him, and leans back against it. Calm. Like he didn't just put someone in a wheelchair.
I walk straight to him, words tearing out before I can stop them.
"You actually did that?"
He tilts his head, almost bored. "Yeah. I did."
My chest caves. "Why?"
"Because he deserved it."
I flinch. "You almost killed him."
His eyes lock on mine, steady, unblinking. "But he's alive, isn't he?"
My throat dries. My voice cracks. "You really are a monster."
Something flickers in his face. He doesn't argue. He just… chuckles. Low. Dark. Like the word doesn't cut him, it entertains him.
"Relax," he says, pushing off the door. His voice is too smooth. "It's nothing. He touched you. I asked him. That's all."
My stomach twists. The casualness. The fucking calm. He says it like snapping bones is as normal as brushing his teeth.
I stare at him, horrified. "That's all? You left him half-blind, broken ribs, begging for air—and that's all?"
He shrugs, pulling at the chain around his neck, letting it glint under the light. "He won't die."
I swallow hard. My heart is pounding so loud I can barely hear myself think.
He steps closer, slow, like he knows I'll move back—and I do, every step of mine retreating until the edge of the bed hits the back of my knees.
His voice drops lower. "Stop shaking like I slaughtered him. You should've seen what I wanted to do."
My breath stutters. My skin goes cold.
He smirks faintly, eyes dragging over me, unreadable but dangerous. "But I didn't. I let him live. Be grateful for that."
I can't tell if it's a threat, a confession, or some twisted version of comfort.
And the scariest part?
He believes every word of it.
________
ZAYAN 'S POV
The study reeks of leather and smoke. Heavy curtains pulled back, sunlight slicing across the rug, catching the edges of books and glass. Kamal Rashid Tavarian sits behind the desk like a fucking king, cane resting against the wood, eyes locked on me the second I walk in.
I don't wait for him to open his mouth. I lean on the doorframe, smirk cutting across my face.
"I know I look really good, old man. You can stare all you want."
His jaw flexes. "Brat."
I chuckle, pushing off the frame and strolling in. He doesn't blink. Not once. Just tracks me like a predator sizing up another.
"You almost did dirty to the annual day celebration," he says finally, voice sharp enough to slice glass. "What if he had died?"
I tilt my head. "He didn't. So there's no problem to your celebration."
His cane taps once on the floor. A warning shot. "From the beginning, I told you—don't make her your weakness." His eyes narrow, too fucking sharp for a man his age. "But she already is, isn't she?"
I don't answer. I let the silence stretch. Smirk twitching at the corner of my mouth because he wants a reaction, and I won't give him the one he expects.
His voice drops lower. "You think I don't know why I kept you hidden all these years? Why your face, your name, never left this house? You think I did that because I didn't trust you?" He leans forward. "I did it because the world isn't ready for you. But don't confuse that with a free pass to do whatever the fuck you want."
I take a step closer, slow, deliberate. My voice cuts back, calm but edged like a blade.
"I know she's in danger too. Don't play your little games with her. Don't drag her into this. She doesn't know what this world is, and she doesn't need to."
He smirks, leaning back in his chair like I just amused him. "There it is. Your leash." His voice hardens. "She's your weakness."
I let the smirk spread full now. "Just like your wife was yours."
For the first time, silence. He doesn't say a word. Doesn't move. His eyes flash, though. I hit the vein.
I roll my shoulders, standing over him now. "Difference is, old man, I don't fucking pretend."
He breathes out through his nose, steady. "I know you'll do anything for her. That's the problem. That's the very thing that will cut you down."
I laugh, low, dark. "That's the thing about me. I don't cut down. I burn everything else first."
His gaze sharpens, old predator recognizing another one grown under his roof. "I know you are not what you show. Your own parents don't know who the hell you are. Or the shady businesses you keep in the dark."
I lean down, palms flat on his desk, smirk widening until it looks dangerous. "Do you know me?"
He doesn't blink. "No."
"Exactly," I snap. "And that's the fucking problem. You talk like you're terrified—terrified you're handing your throne to a monster."
The word hangs. Heavy.
My chain slides against my collarbone when I straighten. I let my voice drop, steel-hard. "I don't want this. The heir shit. The circus. The leash. I don't fucking want it."
Kamal doesn't flinch. He grips his cane tighter. "If I make you the heir, you don't get to choose. You will do what it takes. You will control yourself. You will not jeopardize the family."
I laugh again, dark and humorless. "Control? Don't bullshit me. You know damn well control's just a mask. You wore one all your life."
His voice cuts sharp. "I raised you, Adam."
I tilt my head, smile sharp enough to bleed. "No. You raised a version of me. The polished one. The Tavarian heir. But the other face? The one I really am? I raised him myself."
His eyes narrow. "I know. And that other face—it's too much for this world. What you show here, to your parents, to me—it's an act. Don't think I don't see it. Don't think I don't know what you're hiding."
My jaw ticks. I stare down at him, voice flat. "You don't know shit. And you never will."
We hold the silence. Two predators breathing the same air, neither blinking first.
Kamal doesn't look away. Doesn't blink. His eyes are locked on me, sharper than the fucking cane in his hand. Then his mouth twists, slow, deliberate.
"You are the one who married her," he says, voice low, steady. "Not me. You dragged her into this world, boy. Not me. Because you love her."
The word hits like a gunshot. Love.
I don't move. My jaw tightens, but I keep my face still.
He keeps pressing, like a knife digging into a wound.
"You claim I make her a pawn? You did that yourself the second you put your name on her. Don't pretend you're innocent."
I step in closer, slow, controlled, leaning forward until my shadow cuts across his desk. My voice drops into that tone that's half a warning, half a promise.
"If I dragged her into this, then I'll protect her. Even if I have to burn the fucking empire to the ground. And listen carefully, Grandfather—if you ever think of making her a piece in one of your sick Tavarian games, I won't tolerate it. Not from you. Not from anyone."
He smirks. The bastard actually smirks.
"There it is. The fire. The leash around your throat. You think I don't see it?" His eyes gleam, cold and cruel. "Does she know, Adam? Does she know there's another face under the mask you wear for her? Another version of you that would terrify her if she ever saw it?"
My silence is the only answer. He notices. He fucking notices.
He leans back, smug, like he just landed a hit.
"You can't hide it forever. One day, it'll slip. And when it does, she won't stand beside you. She'll run. She'll see what I see. A monster."
My laugh cuts sharp, no humor in it. Just steel and fire.
"She won't run." I straighten, eyes locked on his, voice low and dangerous. "Even if she sees it, she won't escape me. Because I don't let go. You should know that—I learned it from you."
Kamal's eyes harden, the smirk faltering just enough to taste victory. He grips his cane tighter, leaning forward now.
"I never raised a monster."
I tilt my head, smirk spreading slow across my mouth. My chain drags against my collarbone, glinting in the slice of sunlight.
"Then maybe you should've tried harder."
Silence. Thick. Heavy. His cane taps once on the floor, the only sound in the room.
I let it sit there. Let him stew in it. Let him look at me and see exactly what he built but refuses to claim.
Because he's right—I am a monster.
But I'm not his monster.
Kamal finally breaks the silence. His mouth curves—not kind, not soft, just a thin, dangerous smile.
"You really are a brat."
I chuckle under my breath, tilting my head. "Just like you."
That earns me the faintest twitch in his brow. His fingers tighten on the cane, not from anger, but from the restraint it takes not to laugh. He stares at me, hard.
"You don't hate me?" His tone is flat, but there's something behind it. "Not even a little? After everything? I never treated you like a grandson. Not like the others."
I lean back in the chair opposite him, spreading my shoulders, my smirk sharp. "Why the fuck would I hate you?" My voice is low, steady. "You think I expected bedtime stories and hugs? You think I wanted you to look at me like the rest of them? I knew exactly what I was to you—what you were making me into. A blade, not a boy."
His eyes narrow, studying me.
I go on, voice cutting sharper. "I know what my responsibilities are. I know the Tavarian name isn't just a crown—it's a loaded gun pointed at my own skull. I don't know what's waiting for me tomorrow, next year, ten years from now. I don't know what kind of enemies you've stacked up with that bloody past of yours. But I do know this—" I lean forward, elbows on my knees, chain dragging down my chest as I look him dead in the eye. "Whatever it is, I'll face it. Because that's what you built me for. That's the deal, right? You made me this, so I'll fucking carry it."
His jaw flexes. He doesn't speak.
I let out a breath, low, sharp. "But hate you?" I shake my head once, slow. "No. I never hated you. Never will. Even though you didn't treat me like the rest. Because hate's too fucking easy. Hate's for people who want excuses." I let my smirk turn dark, dangerous. "And I don't need excuses. I'm exactly what you wanted, and I'm fine with that."
Kamal finally shifts, cane tapping once against the rug. His smile is thin, predatory, but it's there. "Careful, Adam. You sound proud of being my creation."
I tilt my head, grin spreading, venom and amusement in equal measure. "Not proud. Just realistic. You raised me like a weapon, and I learned how to use myself better than you ever could've imagined. That's the difference."
The old man studies me in silence, and I can see it—the flicker in his eyes. He knows. He knows I'm not lying. That I don't hold resentment, don't hold grudges. I don't carry that weight. Because I'm already carrying too much else.
And maybe that's what unsettles him. That I can look him dead in the face and tell him I'll burn down everything he's built if it means keeping her safe… and yet I'll never hate him for it.
Because in this fucked-up empire, Tavarians don't hate Tavarians.
We sharpen each other until one of us cuts deeper.
Kamal leans back, cane hooked against the desk, eyes cutting into me like he's been saving the next line just to see if I flinch.
"How much do you love her?"
The question slams into the air. Not asked soft. Not asked kind. It's a fucking probe.
My smirk twitches, slow. "Why would you need to know that?"
His brow lifts. "Because I should know whether the heir of this empire is a romantic fool… or a man in control of his own obsession."
I bark out a laugh, sharp, humorless. "Romantic? I'm not as pathetic as you were." I tilt my head, chain glinting under the light. "If I asked Nana about the shit you used to do behind closed doors, I'd probably slit my own throat with a smile."
For the first time in years, the old bastard laughs. Really laughs. Low, dark, chest shaking with it. "She wouldn't tell you."
I smirk back, dangerous. "Yeah, I know. But don't confuse her silence with me being blind. I don't need her to tell me. I already know enough."
His laugh fades, but the smile stays. He nods once, eyes narrowing in something that almost looks like approval. "Arshila," he says, slow, tasting her name like a test. "She's fire. And she matches your spark. I like her."
My jaw ticks. The way he says her name—like she's already a piece on the board—rakes over my nerves.
I lean forward, voice dropping, sharp as broken glass. "Don't like her too much. She's not yours to like."
Kamal doesn't back off. His smirk sharpens. "She's a Tavarian wife now. That makes her part of my bloodline, whether you like it or not. And I like her. Because she's the only thing that makes you slip. The only thing that makes you human."
My eyes cut straight into his, slow blink, dangerous. "Human?" I shake my head once, smirk curling. "No. She doesn't make me human. She just makes me worse."
His smile widens like I proved his fucking point.
The study door clicks shut behind me, quiet, too fucking quiet for what's still ricocheting in my head.
Monster.
I called myself that without even blinking. And the worst part? I didn't lie.
The corridor is dark, half the house swallowed by shadows, but my steps eat through it like I own the walls, the floor, the silence. I do. Tavarian blood does. But still—there's that word. Monster.
Because that's what I am, isn't it? Not the polished heir they gossip about in their little soirées. Not the clean-cut devil they try to sell on the front page. No. I'm the thing they whisper about when the lights are off. The thing they pray doesn't notice them. And maybe that's fine—better than fine. It's fucking true.
My chain glints when I pass under the low light, the crest cold against my skin, biting into my collarbone. I run my thumb over it like a habit, like it's the only thing that grounds me. Kamal's laugh still crawls under my skin, the bastard's voice stuck on repeat: She's the only thing that makes you slip.
Slip? No. She doesn't make me weaker. She makes me hungrier. She strips the leash off the monster and lets it bare its teeth.
And yet—
Not once have I laid a finger on her without her permission. Not once have I let anyone else fucking try. She doesn't know it, doesn't see it, but every room she walks into is already cleared of threats before she even breathes in. Because she's mine. Because no one touches what's mine.
The night hums low through the halls. My jaw aches from how hard I'm clenching it. I keep moving. Past the portraits, past the heavy windows bleeding in the moonlight, past every reminder that Tavarian blood is a crown made of fucking barbed wire.
Monster. Yeah. I can live with that. Better a monster who owns the dark than a man who gets eaten by it.
I reach the door. My hand grips the handle, veins sharp under skin, and I push it open.
The air in the room shifts, heavy, wrong—no, not wrong. Different.
I freeze.
She's there.
Standing in the dim spill of moonlight like she's carved straight out of sin.
Half-naked.
📍Here's a friendly, hype-style announcement you can use for tomorrow's chapter sneak peek while also letting readers know about your tiers and benefits without sounding like a hard sell:
---
Sneak Peek — Tomorrow's Chapter
"What the fuck are you wearing, woman?" My voice is rougher than I want it to be, dragged out like gravel.
Behind me, I hear her stutter. "D-don't look!"
"I'm not." My eyes are on the floor, hands fisting at my sides. But god, the image is already seared in my skull. Her bare legs—smooth, long, glowing pale under moonlight. Shoulders bare, collarbones sharp enough to cut. That neckline—low, reckless, dangerous. I saw too much in just one second. Too much.
And it's enough to ruin me.
Fuck me, I think I just saw something I shouldn't. Something I'll never unsee.
My pulse hammers like I just ran a mile. My ears are hot, burning. My body's betraying me in ways it never has before. Because it's the first time. The first time I've seen her stripped of all that armor.
And holy fuck—she's beautiful.
No. Not beautiful. That word's too clean. She's lethal. A trap dressed in silk.
My throat's dry. My head's a mess. Control is slipping.
---
Want more?
You can join insiders to get full access and perks:
5/month → 5 chapters ahead
10/month → 10 chapters ahead + side character POVs
15/month → 10+ chapters ahead + spicy chapters, side character POVs, and bonus scenes no one else sees
This is where the story gets raw, uncut, and fully yours. No rush, no spam—just a little corner of the story for those who want to follow the chaos closely.
👉 Check my bio to unlock your tier and get the chapters early.
--