Dinner is a joke.
At least tonight it is.
I didn't eat at the long-ass table with Zayan or anyone else. Hell no. I sat on the far end of the mansion with Izar instead, both of us hunched over plates like fugitives. The guy's got a split lip, swollen like someone just clocked him, and of course I notice right away.
"What the hell happened to your face?" I jab at him with my fork.
Izar just shrugs, muttering around his food. "Nothing."
"Bullshit. You look like you lost a round with a steel door."
"Dropped," he says flat. "Just dropped."
"Dropped? What? Your dignity?"
He smirks but doesn't answer. Typical Tavarian-trained robot. The more I push, the more he stonewalls, like silence is some badge of honor. It makes me want to throw mashed potatoes at his face, but I don't, because he's the only person who sat with me tonight when I couldn't stand the thought of everyone else's eyes.
So I let it slide. Barely.
Now I'm back in the room. My stomach's full, my brain's fried, and all I want is to crawl into bed and knock myself out. I sit on the cushioned seat by the window, trying to breathe, trying to not overthink—when a knock rattles the door.
My brows snap together.
Zayan doesn't knock. He doesn't even know how. He just pushes through like the world belongs to him and everyone in it should be grateful he showed up. If someone's knocking, it's not him.
I drag myself up, half annoyed, half curious, and swing the door open.
And my heart drops.
"Mom?"
Maireen stands there, smiling like she owns the night, silk shawl draped over her shoulders, eyes sparkling with mischief.
"Baby," she says, stepping inside before I even have the chance to stop her.
I blink. "What are you doing here at this time?"
She closes the door behind her with a sly grin, like we're plotting a murder together. "Checking on you. Are you still scared of what happened?"
I shake my head fast. "No. I'm alright now."
"Good. That's better." She waves a hand like she's dismissing the memory. "Ebrahim is always a brat. Forget him."
I try to smile. I really do. "Yeah… okay."
She gives me this look, soft but sharp underneath. Then—"You know, I have a gift for you."
My brows shoot up. "Gift? For what?"
She winks. Actually winks. And suddenly, the staff member lurking outside the door steps in, holding a wide, expensive-looking box like it contains state secrets. Maireen takes it and thrusts it toward me.
I hesitate. "Uh—"
She beams. "Zayan is probably angry and tired. You have to make him happy. And don't think I'm commanding, okay? It's for you. For your happiness too, baby."
I just stare at her. Did she really just say that with a straight face? "I… don't understand what you're saying."
Maireen smirks, slow, dangerous, like she knows exactly what she's saying. "Open the box."
So I do. And I freeze.
It's silk. Nightdress. Black, delicate, barely-there silk.
My mouth opens but no words come out. "Mom, this is—"
"Yes," she cuts in, grinning. "Exactly."
I blink at her, horrified. "Mom…"
"Yes. It's my gift. Go and wear it."
My jaw actually unhinges. "What? Why? I don't want this."
Her smile sharpens. "I knew you'd say no. That's why I came prepared. You have to go and wear it. And I will leave after I see you in this dress."
"Mom, that's too cruel." I grab the silk like it's toxic. "I've never worn something like this. I don't like these types of dresses."
"I know you don't like revealing clothes." She shrugs, completely unbothered. "But this isn't outside. It's your own room. It's okay." Then she tilts her head with the kill-shot. "And it's not like he hasn't seen your body already."
I choke. Literally choke. "MOM."
She just smiles wider, evil and angelic at the same damn time.
Internally, I'm dying. Because the truth? Me and Zayan aren't even that kind of couple. Everyone thinks we're madly in love, when really—we're just two inmates forced to share the same cell. And now I'm supposed to wear lingerie in front of him like this is some kind of honeymoon porno? Absolutely not.
But of course, I can't say that. Not to her. So I stand there, silk in my hands, feeling like I'm holding a loaded gun.
And she doesn't blink once.
I stare at the silk like it's a murder weapon.
Like—who the fuck designs something this small and calls it clothing?
But Maireen's eyes are on me, gleaming like she's the villain in some soap opera. And she's not leaving. I know it.
So I do the only thing I can. I clutch the damn thing to my chest, sigh like I'm signing my death certificate, and mumble, "Fine. I'll put it on."
Her smirk widens. "Good girl."
Ugh. Kill me.
I shuffle into the bathroom, slam the door, and hang my comfy pajama pants and oversized T-shirt on the hook like they're my real clothes, my safe armor. Then I stare at the nightdress. Thin. Black. Shiny. Evil.
I pull it on.
And instantly regret every life choice that led me here.
The fabric is soft—dangerously soft. Slides over my skin like it belongs there, like it knows my body better than I do. But that's the problem. It shows everything. The sleeves aren't sleeves, they're basically fucking yarn. My arms are bare. My neck? Too low. Way too low. The neckline dips down like it has no respect for boundaries, the front of my breasts actually peeking out. And the length? Oh, God. It stops mid-thigh.
I've never worn anything thigh-length in my life. I feel like I'm naked.
I tug at the hem, yank at the straps, but it doesn't help. Nothing helps.
I step out, hugging my arms over my chest like I'm covering a crime scene. "This is… no. Absolutely no."
Maireen gasps, eyes lighting up like Christmas morning. "Woo! You are so damn pretty. I knew exactly what I was doing when I picked that dress."
I glare at her. "You knew? Mom, this is attempted murder."
She ignores me. Full-on ignores me. She steps forward, grabs the clip holding my hair up, and pops it open. My bun unravels, hair spilling over my shoulders.
"There," she says, smug. "Now you look perfect."
"Perfect?" I hiss, tugging the hem down again. "Mom, I look like—like I just lost a bet."
"Don't be shy in front of me, baby. It's just me. I raised Zayan. You think I don't know how this works?" She smirks, giving me that knowing-mother look that makes me want to crawl into a hole and scream.
My face burns. "This is not me. I don't wear shit like this. Ever."
She pats my cheek. "You have a nice body, so it looks good. Stop overthinking. I'm going, but remember—" her tone shifts, playful but edged, "—you two have to forget everything. Okay?"
Forget everything. Yeah, sure. I'll just forget I'm wearing Satan's hand-me-downs.
I nod anyway, robotic, because what the hell else am I supposed to do? "Okay."
"Good girl." She slips out, silk shawl trailing, shutting the door behind her.
Silence slams into the room.
I'm left standing there. Half-naked. Skin prickling. Arms clamped around myself.
I turn toward the mirror and almost gag.
Nope. Nope. Nope. This is not right. This is not me. I look like one of those cursed TikTok thirst traps where the comments are all "step on me queen." Absolutely not.
I mutter to myself, "God, please, just don't let him walk in right now. Please. Give me two minutes to change back into my pajama pants and sweatshirt of dignity."
I grab the hem, ready to rip it off, already halfway to the bathroom when—
The door snaps open.
Loud. Sharp. No knock.
I freeze.
Zayan
---
ZAYAN POV
The door swings open.
And I freeze.
For a second—fuck, maybe longer—I don't even register the room. My brain just flatlines. Because she's there.
Not in her usual oversized sweatshirts or baggy pants. Not in the messy hair and stubborn glare armor she wears like a weapon.
No.
She's standing in silk. Thin, black, fucking sinful silk.
Her gasp is the first thing that cuts through the static in my head. Then her arms fly up, grabbing the blanket from the bed like a shield, clutching it to her chest.
And I—God fucking damn it—I turn, sharp, snapping my head away like the sight burned me. My jaw aches from the grind.
"What the fuck are you wearing, woman?" My voice is rougher than I want it to be, dragged out of me like gravel.
Behind me, I hear her stutter. "D-don't look!"
"I'm not." My eyes are on the fucking floor, my hands fisting at my sides. But Christ, the image is already seared in my skull. Her bare legs—smooth, long, glowing pale under moonlight. Her shoulders bare, collarbones sharp enough to cut. That neckline—low, reckless, dangerous. I saw too much in just that 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 be able to 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.
I yank my shirt over my head, the fabric sticking for a second on my shoulders before I rip it off. I hold it out behind me, hand stretched backward, my body angled forward, eyes glued to the goddamn floorboards. I don't dare turn.
"Wear this," I mutter, voice like gravel scraping steel.
Silence. Then her voice, small, shaky, almost a whisper. "Don't look."
My hand flexes. "I'm not."
I feel the brush of her fingers when she snatches the shirt out of my hand, and fuck—fuck—goosebumps rip up my arm. My ears are burning, I can feel it. My whole body's taut, like one wrong move and I'll snap.
Behind me, fabric rustles. The sound of her sliding into my shirt. It's long, I know it'll drown her frame, cover what that silk didn't. But the thought of her in my shirt—wearing something that smells like me, wrapped in it—nearly kills me.
She mutters, "Don't look."
"Put on a fucking pair of pants while you're at it," I growl, because if I don't, I'm going to lose my mind.
She bites back, voice sharper now. "Don't look."
"I said I won't!" My voice rises, snapping, because fuck—she doesn't get it. She doesn't get how hard I'm holding the leash right now.
More noise. The creak of the wardrobe door. Hangers rattling. Drawers sliding. My hands curl tighter. My knuckles pop.
"What the fuck are you doing now?" I grit, not turning, not moving, just listening to chaos unfold behind me.
"Changing." Her voice is muffled, defiant.
God. I squeeze my eyes shut.
Every sound is torture. The scrape of fabric. The thud of something dropped. The faint hiss of silk sliding off skin.
I grip the edge of the dresser in front of me, veins carving sharp against my forearm, jaw locked so tight it hurts.
Don't think about it. Don't fucking think about it.
But my mind doesn't listen. It's already painting the image—her pulling the shirt over her head, hair messy, silk falling to the floor, bare skin flashing under moonlight.
Monster, I remind myself. You're the monster. You don't get to want this.
And yet—fuck me—I've never wanted anything more.
I'm clenching the dresser so hard my knuckles hurt, waiting for this hell to be over, when I hear her mutter under her breath—low, frustrated, like she forgot I'm even in the room.
"Where the hell are the pants?"
I snap before I even think. "You don't see any?"
There's a pause. Then her sharp little voice fires back, "I wasn't talking to you. I was asking myself."
My jaw ticks. "Then look in the closest one."
"I am," she bites, annoyed, and I swear I can picture her rolling her eyes like this whole situation isn't making me want to tear my skin off.
I grab the doorknob with my free hand just to ground myself, metal biting into my palm. It hurts, fuck, it hurts, but maybe pain will keep me sane. Because the noises behind me—rustling, shuffling, fabric hitting the floor—are enough to wreck me.
Finally, her voice comes, casual like she didn't just put me through torture. "Okay. Done."
I exhale slow, my chest tight. "Can I turn now?"
"Yes."
I turn. Slowly. Like if I move too fast I'll combust.
And—holy fuck.
I freeze again.
I thought the silk was bad. But this—this is worse.
She's standing there. My shirt drowning her frame, sleeves too long, hem falling low, but it doesn't matter. Because she's tiny in it. Small. Soft. Drowning in me. And she's got pants on now, thank fuck, but it doesn't help. Not when her hair's messy around her face, cheeks flushed from changing, lips parted like she's caught in the act.
The silk nightmare she had on before is tossed across the bed like a crime scene. My eyes land on it, then back on her, and I can't stop the sound that rips out of me.
A low, pissed growl.
"Why the fuck were you wearing something you never wear?" My voice is rough, sharp, like I'm scolding her but really I'm scolding myself for even looking.
She hesitates. And when she answers, her voice is softer. "It was your mom's gift."
That hits harder than it should. My whole body goes still. Like a fucking freeze-frame.
Mom. Of course. Who else would throw her into something like that? Who else would set me up to walk into my room and see my wife in silk that barely covered her skin?
I rub a hand over my face, dragging it down hard. My chest feels like it's caving in, fury and want tangling into one choking knot.
"Don't wear something like this again." My tone leaves no room for argument. It's a command, not a request.
She looks at me, her chin tilted stubborn. But her voice is small, almost guilty. "I won't."
My jaw flexes. My pulse hammers so loud I'm sure she can hear it. My mouth moves before I can stop it. "I'm not a saint".
Her brows furrow. "What?"
I shake my head, backing off, because fuck, I already said too much. "Nothing."
But it's not nothing. It's everything. Because standing here, looking at her in my shirt, smelling like me, soft and untouchable but right in front of me—I'm seconds away from snapping the leash I've kept on myself since the day I married her.
The lights are off. Only the moon is bleeding through the curtains, cold and silver, hitting her hair like it's spun glass. She's curled on the bed, already half asleep, my shirt drowning her, breathing slow.
I'm on the couch. Supposed to sleep. Supposed to keep the distance.
I can't.
I turn on my side, then my back. I flip the cushion, punch it, shift again. Nothing. My body's wired, skin hot, chest tight. Every time I close my eyes I see her standing there in that silk, see her in my shirt, tiny, soft, smelling like me.
I drag a hand over my face. "Fuck…" The sound's a hiss in the dark.
I'm filthy. Filthy for even thinking this. Filthy for the way my stomach twists and my cock throbs just listening to her breathing.
What the hell is wrong with me?
Is it because I never touched a woman? Because I didn't even want to until her? Because I kept myself clean thinking I'd be untouchable? And now here I am, losing my mind over a girl asleep in my shirt.
I stare at the ceiling, jaw clenched so tight it aches. "You're a Tavarian, for fuck's sake," I mutter under my breath. "Control yourself."
It doesn't work. The more I try, the worse it gets.
Finally I sit up, elbows on my knees, head in my hands. My pulse is hammering like I've run a race. I glance at her. She's on her side now, hair falling across her face, one leg tucked up, one bare foot peeking from under the blanket.
God.
Fucking.
Damn.
I push off the couch, barefoot, silent. Before I know it, I'm standing over her. Moonlight's spilling across her skin. My shirt rides up just enough to show a sliver of her hip above the waistband of her pants. My throat goes dry.
I reach out before I think. Flick my finger gently against her forehead.
She jerks with a little squeak. "Aww!"
Her eyes snap open, blinking up at me. "What the fuck, Zayan?"
I straighten, arms crossed, masking everything behind a smirk. "Get up."
She frowns. "What?"
"Come."
"Come where? It's the middle of the night, you psycho."
"Just come." My voice drops lower, a growl. "Now."
She sits up slowly, hair a mess, rubbing her forehead where I flicked her. "You're insane."
"Yeah." I go to the closet, grab a shawl, toss it at her. "Put it on. It's cold outside."
She catches it, staring at me like I've lost my mind. "Outside? Are we going outside? Now? It's about midnight, Zayan!"
I don't answer. I'm already walking to the door, fingers curling around the handle, the sound of metal quiet and sharp in the dark.
Behind me she mutters, "You're actually serious."
"Move, Arshila." My tone isn't loud but it's final.
She huffs, standing, wrapping the shawl around her shoulders. "You're lucky I don't throw this in your face."
I glance back at her over my shoulder. Moonlight catches her eyes, wide and defiant, and for a second everything inside me goes hot again.
You're a monster, Tavarian, I tell myself. Don't forget it.
I open the door anyway. Cold night air slides in, biting at my skin.
I look at her once more, jaw tight, voice low. "Let's go before I change my mind."
And fuck me—she actually steps closer, small in my shirt and shawl, looking at me like she's not sure if she should trust me. And I know if she keeps looking at me like that, I'm not going to make it to whatever the hell I think we're doing outside.
ARSHILA POV
The stairs creak under my feet as I follow him down. My shawl keeps slipping off my shoulder, and I keep hitching it back up like an idiot trailing behind a man who might just decide to murder me in his own damn house.
My heart's thumping so loud it's ridiculous. Midnight, his face blank, walking ahead like a shadow, and me… following. Why? No idea. Maybe I have a death wish.
Finally I snap. "Where the fuck are we going, Zayan?"
He doesn't even look back, just slides one hand into his pocket like he's on a runway, not in his own house dragging me out of bed. "Did you see this house? Properly?"
I frown, hugging the shawl tighter. "No. Why the hell would I? It's not like I'm going to roam across acres for fun."
His lips twitch, I see it even in the dark. "So we're going to see it. A tour."
I stop dead on the stairs. "A house tour? At midnight?" I laugh, sharp, disbelieving. "Are you out of your fucking mind? Your grandfather's house is literally across acres, Zayan. There's a goddamn river flowing through the garden. If we start now, it'll be morning before we finish."
He finally glances back, and his smirk is infuriating. "Just come on, babe."
That word.
Fuck.
My stomach drops, my pulse spikes, my brain short-circuits like a fried wire.
Babe.
I hate him. I want to throw the word back in his face. But my traitor heart? It's sprinting.
Before I can retort, he grabs my wrist and pulls me down the last step so hard I stumble right into him. His grip is firm, hot, and way too close.
He leans in, voice low, brushing the side of my ear. "There's a secret place here. Let me show you. Trust me—you won't forget it."
I roll my eyes, but the smirk slips out anyway. "You sound like a serial killer luring me into the woods."
His smirk sharpens, dangerous. "Maybe I am. You're still following me, though."
God help me, he's right. I am.
We step outside, cold air slamming against my skin, but the roses hit me first. Everywhere. The garden's drowning in them—climbing walls, spilling across trellises, even along the edge of the fountain. The whole fucking palace smells like roses. It's too much. Like walking into a perfume bottle.
"This house is basically Rose Country," I mutter under my breath. "Couldn't just have one or two like a normal family, huh?"
He chuckles low, and my stomach flips. "Normal families don't build rivers in their gardens either, sweetheart."
Sweetheart. Babe. Fucking Tavarian is trying to kill me.
We walk deeper, the garden darker, quieter. The only sounds are gravel crunching under our feet and the faint rustle of leaves in the night wind. Then he suddenly shifts, sliding his hand down from my wrist—straight into my palm.
I blink, shocked, because he doesn't do this. He doesn't hold hands.
My instinct is to pull back. Instead, my fingers twitch against his, and he clamps down like steel, lacing our hands tight, as if he knows I'll try to escape.
"Zayan—"
"Shut up and walk." His voice is calm, deep, final.
So I walk.
But my brain won't shut up. His palm is rough, warm, swallowing mine. His shirt sleeve brushes my arm every time we move. And the smell—God. His shirt smells exactly like him. Spice, cider, smoke-sweet warmth. Not heavy, not choking—sharp, addictive. Probably some cologne worth more than my life.
And now I'm fucked because every breath I take is him.
Why is this so addictive? Why does his hand feel like an anchor I don't want to let go of? Why does my chest feel like it's caving in just from walking beside him?
I glance up at him, moonlight cutting his profile sharp—jawline, chain glinting against his collarbone, eyes dark and unreadable.
He doesn't look at me. Doesn't need to. He knows.
He always knows.
And the worst part? I'm starting to wonder if maybe he really is leading me into the woods to kill me.
Or worse—
To ruin me in ways I can't crawl back from.
He takes a turn I've never seen before, slipping past a hedge like he's lived here forever—which, yeah, he has. Me? I'm trailing behind, shawl clutched tighter, heart still rabbiting.
"Zayan," I whisper harsh, glancing over my shoulder like someone's about to pop out with a fucking lantern. "What if someone sees us?"
He doesn't even slow. His hand tightens around mine, dragging me forward. "Let them."
I stumble, glaring at his back. "Let them?"
Finally, he looks over his shoulder, voice husky enough to crawl under my skin. "They'll think we're being romantic."
Romantic. Out of his mouth. The Tavarian heir. I actually bark out a laugh. "Yeah, right. The two of us strolling around hand in hand like some lovesick couple? You'd rather die."
His smirk cuts sideways, sharp and slow. "Don't test me, Arshila."
We step out from the hedge, and I swear my chest caves in.
The pathway in front of us looks like it was pulled straight from some untouchable dream. Marble underfoot, smooth and pale, glowing faint in the moonlight. A tunnel of arches stretches out, one after another, covered thick with vines and roses so heavy they drip from the top. Pink blooms everywhere, spilling like they're drunk on their own beauty. The moon threads through the leaves, carving silver shadows across the stone. Fallen petals scatter under our feet, crunching soft when we step.
It's too beautiful. So beautiful it pisses me off.
I stop dead. "Holy shit."
He glances at me, one brow lifted. "What?"
"This—" I gesture at everything. "This looks like some fantasy land crap. Are you kidding me? This is just here? Like a casual midnight walkway?"
He smirks, satisfied, and keeps tugging me forward.
My voice drops, softer despite myself. "Is this the secret place?"
He glances down at me, slow blink, and shakes his head. "Nah."
I scowl. "Nah? Then what the fuck? Why drag me through half a goddamn fairytale if this isn't it?"
"You ask too many questions." His voice is low, amused, rough.
"Yeah, because you're leading me into the woods like some creep. I'm fucking scared."
He stops so fast I almost run into his back. He turns, eyes dark, the line of his jaw cutting sharp in the moonlight.
"Scared?" His voice is quiet, dangerous. "Why?"
I swallow, caught. "I don't know."
He leans in, head tilting slightly, chain glinting. "This whole mansion is lit up. Lights everywhere. Guards at every corner. You're walking on marble under a roof of roses. And you're scared?" His smirk sharpens, eyes dragging over me. "When I'm beside you?"
My throat's dry. I can barely force the words out. "That's why I'm scared."
For a second, his face is unreadable. Then—he lets out a soft huff, shaking his head. "Idiot."
The word stings and warms at the same time. My lips twitch, almost smiling, because of course he'd call me that instead of saying anything else.
I shake my head, muttering, "Only you could make 'idiot' sound like foreplay."
"What was that?" His voice is sharp, catching it instantly.
"Nothing." I paste on a fake smile and tug my hand free. Except—he doesn't let me. His fingers tighten, locking me against him.
He keeps walking, dragging me forward under the arches, moonlight slicing through the vines, petals falling soft around us like the whole garden's conspiring to turn me into a cliché.
And me? I'm still trying to figure out if I should be more scared of this mansion, or of the man walking beside me—hand clamped tight around mine, smelling like sin, looking like danger, and making every step feel like I'm walking straight into something I won't survive.
📍
Sneak Peek — Tomorrow's Chapter
Before I can say anything, he turns his head toward me, serious as fuck.
"If you see me in a situation you can't handle… what will you do?"
My stomach twists. The way he asks it—it's not casual. It's not playful.
His face is sharp, unreadable, eyes drilling into mine like he's testing me.
And for a second, I swear he's not asking out of curiosity—he's warning me.