ZAYAN — POV
The storm leans against the glass like it wants to come inside.
Wind slams the panels hard enough that the whole wall hums under my hand.
Dark clouds twist over the skyline, all violent and alive, and I'm standing here like a fucking idiot… staring at them and thinking about her.
The flinch.
That tiny jerk in her shoulders today.
Barely one second.
Barely anything at all.
Eshan froze.
Razmir actually muttered "what the fuck" under his breath.
They looked at her like some invisible hand had come out of nowhere and grabbed her throat.
But me?
My breath didn't even hitch.
Of course it didn't.
I've seen that flinch before.
I memorized it before she even knew my name. Four years of watching her move like she expects pain to come from some angle she can't predict.
I know the shape of her fear better than she thinks I know her face.
The stupid part is… I don't know the story behind it.
Not the real one.
Not the one that made that flinch part of her wiring.
I could get it if I wanted.
I have the resources, the reach, the power, every fucking thing needed to dig up every detail of her life.
But that's not how I want it.
I want it from her mouth.
Her voice.
Her choice.
Her trust.
One day she'll tell me.
Not because I demand it.
Not because she's cornered.
But because she finally looks at me without that barrier in her eyes and decides I'm someone she can hand her ghosts to.
Until then…
I wait.
And yeah, it fucking hurts.
Waiting always hurts.
A crack of thunder rolls over the sky so loud it buzzes in my bones.
Lightning flashes—white, brutal—and then—
A sharp sound behind me.
Glass shattering.
A clean, fast smack of something hitting the floor.
I spin.
She's in the kitchen, standing there like she's been dropped into the wrong timeline, shards scattered around her feet. The overhead light hits the pieces just right, throwing little flecks of brightness on her skin.
She crouches fast, too fast, reaching for the pieces.
"Wait—"
My voice comes out rougher than I mean, but she doesn't even look up.
I move toward her, cutting across the space, but I'm still too far when she grabs a piece wrong.
The glass bites straight into her finger.
She hisses.
Pulls her hand back like it burned her.
Blood beads up instantly, bright and sharp against her skin.
Something tightens in my chest, ugly and protective.
"Arshila," I mutter, low, already closing the distance, "stop fucking touching it."
Her shoulders stiffen at my tone, but she keeps her eyes on her hand like she's pretending it doesn't hurt.
I can see her pulse jumping in her neck.
I can see the way she swallows, trying to act like this is nothing.
And something inside me snaps in a slow, deliberate way.
The storm outside is nothing compared to the shit breaking loose in my head.
Because she's bleeding, and she didn't even think to call me.
Because she crouched down alone like she's used to cleaning up damage quietly.
Because she moves like nobody will come help her unless she cleans the mess first.
Because that instinct—
that painful, automatic, self-sufficient instinct—
tells me more about her past than any file ever could.
I kneel down beside her before she can move away.
Her breath catches; she doesn't look at me.
I don't look away.
The glass on the floor glints between us.
The storm rattles the window behind me.
Her blood trails down her finger in a thin, stubborn line.
And my voice drops lower, rougher, something dark threading through it.
"Don't pick up a single fucking piece," I tell her.
"I'm right here."
The storm keeps screaming outside.
Inside, she's the one shaking.
___________________________
ARSHILA — POV
The second he says I'm right here, my whole chest feels like someone twisted a damn wire inside it.
Tension.
Thick.
Hot.
Everywhere.
I hate that he can do that to me without even trying.
He straightens, pulls his phone out, and mutters something under his breath. Thirty seconds later one of his staff appears like he teleported out of the walls.
Zayan jerks his chin at the mess on the floor.
"Clean it."
His voice has that low, don't-fuck-with-me tone. The staff nods so fast I think he might snap his own neck.
I stand there like an idiot holding my bleeding finger like it's a prop in some weird horror movie.
Before I can step back, Zayan's hand closes around my wrist.
Warm.
Firm.
Strong enough to make my breath stutter.
"What the— let me go." I try to yank my hand back, and it feels like I just tried pulling away from a steel bar. "Where the hell are you taking me?? Get off my hand—"
"Shut up."
I stop instantly.
My mouth just… shuts.
Like he flipped a fucking switch.
I glare at the side of his stupidly perfect face as he drags me across the living room. His grip doesn't hurt, but it's firm enough that my brain goes quiet, and it pisses me off how easily he does that.
He pulls open a drawer, grabs a first aid box, slams it shut like it personally offended him, and walks me straight to the couch.
"What— why the hell are you taking a first aid box?" I snort. "Don't act like some romantic hero or whatever. Seriously. I don't need saving. This is nothing. It's a cut. It'll heal tomorrow. Stop making it a big deal."
I try to stand up because god forbid he thinks I need help.
His hand snaps out.
Catches my wrist again.
Pushes me down onto the couch.
He doesn't shove.
He just… presses.
And somehow I sit.
And stay there.
He kneels in front of me.
Kneels.
My brain does a full system reboot.
He opens the box, grabs the ointment, and his fingers wrap around my hand. Warm again. And careful in a way that makes something crawl up my spine and settle under my skin.
He starts cleaning the cut.
Pain zips through my finger but the real problem is him blowing gently on it afterwards. Like that. Like he's cooling down my skin and heating up everything else.
"You think being stubborn is always hot?" he mutters without looking up.
I scoff so loudly he definitely hears the attitude dripping off it. "I'm not—"
"Don't start," he says, sharp enough to slice the air. "Not now. You can argue after this. I'll give you the time."
Oh I want to smack him.
Right in that perfect jaw.
Just to see if it even dents.
But his touch is so annoyingly gentle.
And I can't fucking move.
And I hate that I like how he's looking at my hand like it's made of something breakable.
His face is inches from my knee.
His hair falls forward a little.
The stupid chain he always wears glints at the base of his throat.
God he's beautiful.
It actually hurts.
I hate that too.
He lifts his eyes.
Slowly.
Like he knows exactly what he's doing to me.
His gaze locks onto mine.
"Is the view good?" he asks, voice pure arrogance wrapped in silk and heat.
Cocky bastard.
My heart hits the inside of my ribs so hard it feels personal.
He slides the band-aid onto my finger with stupid precision.
His fingers brushing my skin like he's memorizing the lines of it.
And right when I'm about to roll my eyes or curse at him or shove him away… something stupid happens.
My mouth twitches.
I smile.
Fucking hell.
Why the hell am I smiling like an idiot?
My face betrays me before my brain even catches up.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
His eyes flick to my mouth like he saw it.
Of course he fucking saw it.
He sees everything.
Creep. Hot creep. Whatever. Doesn't matter.
I yank my hand out of his grip before he can say anything and shoot up from the couch.
My heart is sprinting.
My legs want to sprint too.
Get out. Move. Distance. Air. Something.
I turn toward the hallway like I'm escaping a crime scene—
"Stop."
The word hits my spine like someone dragged velvet across raw nerves.
Deep.
Low.
Too damn controlled.
My whole body just… locks.
Useless thing.
Why do I freeze like he pressed a remote button?
I don't look back.
I can't.
My lungs feel too full, like breathing might expose something I don't want him to see.
Then I feel it.
Heat.
Behind me.
Close.
He's standing there.
Right behind me.
I can literally feel his presence hitting my back like the warmth from an open stove.
Shit.
Shit.
Shit.
I turn my head—slow, careful, like I'm afraid of triggering a bomb—
And he's right there.
Close enough that my breath catches on his.
Close enough that it feels illegal.
I step back on instinct.
He steps forward like he's tied to me with a string.
I go back again.
He comes again.
Silent.
Dangerous.
That calm predator thing he does without trying.
My shoulder blades slam the wall.
A tiny thud, barely anything, but it echoes in my bones.
He stops in front of me.
Too close.
Too fucking close.
His hand comes up—no touching, just resting beside my head on the wall.
Caging me in without even touching me.
The bastard knows exactly how to trap without lifting a finger.
"Tell me."
His voice roughens.
"Why are you running away from me?"
I snort, even if my throat is dry.
"I wasn't."
He tilts his head a little.
Those dark brown eyes catch the light in the room, but the darkness in them swallows it whole.
They're so intense it feels like he's staring through my skin and into every embarrassing thought in my skull.
His left eyebrow lifts higher than the right, and that stupid judging expression almost knocks me out.
His gaze stays on my face.
Heavy.
Hot.
Too much.
"Move," I say, hating how my voice isn't as steady as I want it to be.
He doesn't move an inch.
Doesn't blink.
Doesn't even pretend to consider it.
"Answer my fucking question first."
His tone dips lower.
More heat than sound.
"I said I wasn't."
I glare right back at him even if my heartbeat is slamming like it's trying to escape my chest.
"You are."
His jaw flexes.
"You're avoiding me."
He leans in a little.
"Running from me."
His breath hits my cheek.
Warm.
Smells like mint and something sharp.
"You do it every time."
"Why should I stay with you, anyway?"
The words slip out before I even think.
Because my mouth is an idiot with no impulse control.
His lips curl.
Slow.
Cruel.
Amused.
A smirk that feels like he's just peeled the skin off every lie I tell myself.
He drags his eyes down my face and back up again like he owns the fucking route.
"Don't pretend you don't know."
His voice is soft but in that dangerous, mocking way.
The kind of soft that isn't soft at all.
I swallow hard.
Which is the worst thing to do because he watches my throat move.
The smirk deepens, like he just confirmed something I don't want to admit.
He steps even closer.
My back presses harder into the wall.
My body reacts before my brain.
His hand settles on the wall beside my other side now, both arms bracketing me in.
He looks down at me like he's studying a problem he already knows the answer to.
"You stay," he murmurs, "because you want to."
My breath stumbles.
I fucking hate him.
His eyes flick to my mouth.
Barely.
A millisecond.
But I see it.
I feel it.
Then he adds, quieter, rougher—
"And you run because you hate that you want to."
My stomach drops.
My pulse jumps.
My brain dies.
I want to tell him he's wrong.
I want to shove him.
I want to scream.
I want to kiss him.
I want to disappear into the floor.
Everything happens at once inside me.
It's chaos.
Pure fucking chaos.
And of course he sees it.
He always does.
His eyes soften—barely, just a fraction—like he's seeing straight into the mess I'm trying to hide.
And I swear the bastard looks like he's enjoying every second of it.
The world narrows to him.
His breath.
His heat.
His smirk.
His fucking control.
And I can't move.
Not even a little.
Not because he's holding me.
Because he doesn't have to.
Because he's Zayan Tavarian.
And somehow…
that's enough to pin me in place.
"Move, Zayan. I don't have time to play your little fucking game."
The words come out sharp.
My heartbeat comes out louder.
His face is right there — stupid jaw, stupid eyes, stupid everything — and he just… smiles.
Not sweet.
Not soft.
That slow, knowing curl that makes you want to punch him and kiss him and maybe bite him somewhere illegal.
He chuckles.
Quiet.
Low.
Like he's laughing at how easy I am to rile up.
"Oh? You don't have time?"
His eyes drag down my face with this lazy ownership that makes my knees insult me.
"But you have time to sit between those two idiots and play games?"
I blink.
Once.
Twice.
My brain does that Windows-error-blue-screen thing.
Oh.
OH.
Motherfucker.
He's serious.
He's actually serious.
A smirk crawls onto my face before I can stop it.
If he wants a game, fine.
Let's make him sweat.
"Yes," I say, leaning in just a tiny bit like a menace, "I can."
His jaw ticks.
Good. Suffer.
He moves closer — how the fuck is there even space? — and the wall feels hot behind me.
Or maybe that's me dying, who knows.
"You can," he repeats, voice dipping lower, "but not with me?"
"That's right."
His eyes narrow like I've slapped him with a dictionary.
For a second, I swear the air tightens.
My lungs revolt.
His stare is so fucking heavy it feels like he's pushing me into the wall with it.
Then I fuck up.
I say it without thinking.
Because my brain is a clown.
"Are you jealous?"
The second the words leave my mouth, I want to shove them back down my throat.
Why.
Why do I exist.
But he doesn't even blink.
"Yes."
I freeze.
My whole body stops like someone yanked my battery out.
Breath gone.
Pulse jumping like it heard the word first.
He said it too fast.
Too confident.
No hesitation.
Yes.
What kind of lunatic—
He drags his gaze down to my mouth.
Then to my eyes.
Fuck.
Don't.
Don't do that, bastard.
Don't look at me like you're thinking things I can't handle.
His eyes lift back up to mine, darker now.
"Yeah, I'm jealous," he says, voice rough in that stupid unfair way his voice is rough.
"So what?"
My stomach actually drops.
Straight to hell.
Goodbye digestive system.
"So what?" I repeat, glaring because I have nothing else left in my emotional toolbox.
He steps even closer.
My nose almost brushes his chest.
I hate my life.
"So what," he murmurs, "means I don't like watching you laugh with anyone else."
My breath catches.
Traitor.
Embarrassing little organ.
"And I especially," he adds, leaning just enough to make my insides riot, "don't like when you ignore me for them."
Heat. Everywhere.
Chaos in my skull.
He's too close.
His cologne is doing illegal things to my common sense.
"Zayan—"
It comes out more breath than word.
His eyes flick to my mouth again.
My pulse slams so hard I swear he can feel it through the air.
I'm about two seconds from combusting—
Then
his phone rings.
The loud, sharp sound slices the moment open like a fucking knife.
We both flinch.
He pulls back a tiny bit, jaw tight, eyes still locked on mine like the universe interrupted something he fully intended to finish.
He reaches into his pocket, pulls his phone out, taps it, and puts it on speaker.
Static.
A beat.
Then a voice:
"SIR… Mr Tavarian and Mrs is here."
Everything inside me stills.
SHIT.