ARSHILA — POV
"Don't look so shocked, babe," he says.
"If I ever decide to put a child in you, you won't be walking for days."
The fuck?
I stare at him like he just announced he's Thor's abandoned cousin who eats lightning for breakfast.
"You lost your mind???"
I try to yank my wrist back but he tightens his grip — not enough to hurt, just enough to make my heartbeat spike into the stupid danger zone. Then he pulls me forward so fast I crash into his chest. Hard.
My breath punches out of me.
He stands there like a damn wall while I'm the idiot vibrating against him.
"Let go," I snap, trying to pry his fingers off.
He doesn't even flinch.
Not a twitch.
Just that slow damn smirk pulling at his mouth like he's enjoying the view.
"Try harder, babe."
That tone.
That fucking tone.
"Zayan, I'm serious," I grit out. "Let go."
"No."
"Why're you doing this?"
His eyes drag down my face like he's tasting every expression I make.
"Why not?" he murmurs. "You're my wife."
I scoff so hard my lungs protest.
"Drop the act, bro. I'm not falling for this bullshit."
He laughs under his breath.
Low.
Dark.
Like he just found a new way to torture me for fun.
"That's what I want," he says. "Don't melt. Fight me with that attitude."
My stomach flips.
My brain flips.
Everything flips.
I wiggle—no, I wrestle—in his grip, but he doesn't move a single damn inch. The man is built like gravity. Immovable. Unfair. Illegal.
"Zayan, I swear—"
"Swear harder," he says, that smug bastard.
"Let me go before I actually punch you."
He tilts his head.
Slow.
Dangerous.
Curious.
"Punch me," he says. "i'd like to see you try"
My heart tries to break out of my ribcage.
He steps closer.
Closer.
His forehead nearly brushes mine.
I feel his breath on my mouth again.
Warm.
Steady.
Wrong.
Too tempting for my sanity.
I'm losing my mind.
My nerves are crackling like electric wire.
He's close enough that if I inhale too deep, my lips might touch his.
Nope.
No fucking way.
I gather every cell, every ounce of strength, every stored-up grudge since the day he dragged me into his damn mansion—
And shove him.
Hard.
He falls back onto the bed with this shocked grunt, palms catching him behind.
I'm breathing like I ran a marathon.
"Touch me again," I hiss through my teeth, "and see what happens."
His eyes light up.
Not angry.
Not offended.
Turned on.
He drags his tongue across his teeth and those fangs show.
Sharp.
White.
Devilish.
"Mmm," he says. "Careful, babe. Threats do something to me."
I make the most disgusted face humanity has ever produced.
"You're disgusting, Zayan."
"Thank you," he says, smiling like a sinner. "I try."
"If you try that shit again, I'll actually kill you."
He laughs.
And that sound is…
God.
Deep.
Rich.
Dangerously pretty.
The kind of laugh that crawls under your skin and stays there.
"Relax," he says, still smirking, still sprawled on the bed like I didn't just yeet him across the room. "If you were really scared of me, you wouldn't shove me like that."
I flip him off.
" psycho."
Then I storm into my own room and slam the door harder than necessary.
My back hits the wood.
My lungs finally inflate.
I exhale like a dragon trying not to burn down a village.
"What the fuck is wrong with him," I whisper into the empty air.
"Why is he like this suddenly?"
"What's his motive?"
"And why— WHY— is he built like that?"
I touch my chest because my heart is still sprinting like it's late for a job interview.
"And why the fuck does he have fangs?"
"What is he? A vampire with a business degree?"
My thoughts are spiraling, chaotic, stupid.
He's outside.
I can feel it.
I know he's still there, watching that closed door like he can see straight through it.
And I hate the fact that a tiny, traitorous part of me can feel the heat from his stare even with a wall between us.
God help me.
I'm living with a menace.
_________________________
ZAYAN — POV
The door slams in my face.
She's inside.
I'm still on the damn bed where she shoved me like I'm some lightweight idiot who doesn't bench twice her body weight for fun.
My palms are behind me, body half-propped, breath still uneven from how close she was.
How warm she got.
How pissed she looked.
I'm smiling.
Can't stop it.
It crawls up my face slow, stupid, dangerous.
Her anger is…
God.
It's a whole religion.
That fury in her eyes?
That wild little spark in her voice when she calls me psycho like it's both an insult and a secret nickname?
Kills me.
Every fucking time she opens that mouth of hers I get this urge—this insane, bone-deep pull—to shut it with my own.
Not gently.
Not sweetly.
Not the way normal men kiss.
A real seal-her-breath kind of kiss.
A "you're mine and you know it" kiss.
My head falls back against the wall and I let out this low breath, chest tight, heat curling low like punishment.
I know her tells.
I know what triggers her.
But that shove?
That fire?
That's her.
The real her.
And I want it.
Too much.
It's pathetic how much.
My fingers tap at my thigh because if I don't move them, I'll start imagining them on her skin again.
Tracing.
Testing.
Claiming.
She'd fucking punch me.
She'd probably bite.
And I'd probably enjoy that too, which is its own brand of sick.
I exhale again, tongue pressed to the inside of my cheek as heat rolls through my chest.
If I touch her now…
If I let myself have even a second of what I actually want…
It'll destroy her later when the truth comes out.
I'll break her.
And she's already been broken once.
But fuck, she's mine.
My jaw tightens.
Mine in a way that settles under my skin like ink I can't wash off.
Mine in a way that makes my pulse jump the second she opens her mouth to insult me.
Mine in a way that makes the word itself feel too small.
I want to draw it across her collarbone with my teeth.
I want every breath she takes to taste like me.
And I can't have any of it.
Not yet.
Not until she knows everything.
Not until she hates me.
Not until the world finally gets its hands on the truth I've been burying for years.
That day is coming.
Soon.
And it'll ruin something in me I won't get back.
I stare at the door she's hiding behind.
The wood.
The gold handle.
The silence.
I can feel her on the other side like a pulse under my palm.
Her cheeks were red.
Body hot.
She'll blame me.
She always does.
Good.
Let her.
Let her think I'm the villain in her stupid story, because at least villains get remembered.
They don't get ignored.
They don't get forgotten.
She called me disgusting tonight.
She has no idea how right she is.
I'm a creep.
I'm obsessed.
I'm down bad in a way that should be illegal in several countries.
I'm cooked for her.
Overcooked.
Burnt to the bottom of the damn pan.
And I like it.
I drag a hand through my hair, feeling the tension settle behind my shoulders the way it always does when I want something I shouldn't have.
She's behind that door.
Probably ranting.
Probably pacing.
Probably calling me names she'll say she didn't mean.
I stare so hard it feels like the door might dissolve.
"I'm not done with you, babe," I murmur into the empty room.
My voice comes out low and rough, more truth than I plan to show anyone.
Not even her.
Especially not her.
The door stays closed.
But the pull between us?
Still there.
Still electric.
Still fucking alive.
And I know she feels it too, even if she pretends she doesn't.
That's the part that gets me every time.
----------------------------------------------------
The apartment building Damien crawled into is the kind that pretends it's safe. Quiet street. Empty balconies. Cheap cameras that don't record. A perfect place for a man to fall apart while thinking he's hiding from a monster.
The irony is sweet enough to taste on my tongue.
I take the stairs instead of the elevator. Stairs talk. They echo. They give people time to panic before you even reach them. My footsteps thud up each step with this slow, steady rhythm that makes the whole place feel like it's holding its breath.
By the time I hit the top floor, the air feels thick. Dead. No hallway lights. No sound except the faint wheeze of someone crying too quietly.
Damien.
Poor bastard didn't even change floors. He thinks the darkness hides him. It just exposes him more.
I walk to the last apartment—the one he broke into under the delusion it's "off the grid"—and I rest my hand on the door.
He's trembling inside. I can feel it. Fear leaks through people. It vibrates.
I push the door open slow, letting it creak. He should hear it. He should suffocate on it.
The room is pitch black. No lamps. No glow. Not even streetlight slipping in through the curtains.
His breathing sounds like someone drowning in their own chest.
I smirk.
I hit the lights.
The room explodes into brightness.
And there he is.
Damien Cross. Former Director of DC Group. Big talker. Sharp suits. Arrogant smile. Right now he's crouched in the corner like a kid who just saw the boogeyman crawl under his bed.
Sweat. Hair a mess. Hands shaking. Eyes red and wild.
He looks fucking ruined.
I let my expression soften, slide into Adam-mode like slipping on a mask.
"Hey, Damien," I say gently. "You okay? I've been worried about you."
He lifts his head like it hurts to move.
"Adam…" His voice cracks. "Adam, I'm scared."
He tries to swallow. Fails.
"Daniel's been missing for two weeks and now—" His breath stutters. "Now it's Marcus. His phone's been switched off since two days. Someone's aiming at us, Adam. Someone clever. Someone powerful. Someone who knows everything."
He sounds like a man listing ghosts.
I widen my eyes, step toward him like I'm shocked.
"What? Marcus is also missing?"
He nods frantically, palms squeezing together. "Yes. Next is us, Adam."
"Us?" I repeat, frowning. "What do you mean us?"
"We're a team," he says. Desperate. Clinging. Pathetic.
I let out a short laugh. The kind that slices.
"Since when, Damien? I never agreed to team with you."
His face twists—hurt, betrayal, confusion all choking each other out. He jerks up, stumbling toward me like his last lifeline is slipping.
"Adam? Why the hell are you talking like this now?" His voice shakes like his throat is splintering. "You—you gave us fund!"
"Yes," I say calmly, hands sliding into my pockets. "I did. But that doesn't magically make us a team, okay? Don't make it something it never was."
He lunges at me and grabs my collar with both hands, fingers digging like claws.
"You traitor!" His voice pitches into something broken. "Don't leave me alone now, okay? I'm scared. I'm fucking scared, Adam."
His breath hits my neck, hot and panicked.
He's falling apart on me.
It's beautiful.
And he has no clue he's talking to the exact man he's running from. The monster he thinks is hunting him.
I peel his fingers off my collar slowly, one by one. His grip tries to tighten, but he doesn't have the strength.
"Damien," I say softly. "I'm scared too."
His eyes widen. He eats that line like it's salvation.
"I want to live too," I continue. "So please… I'm sorry. I'm not sure I can stay with you."
"Adam," he whispers. "Adam, don't do this—don't you fucking leave—"
"Damien," I say, cutting him off. "I can't die for someone who doesn't even know what's coming."
He freezes. Trembles harder.
Then he screams.
It's not a normal scream. It's feral. A sound someone makes when their mind actually cracks.
He swings his arm out and destroys everything on the nearest table. Glass shatters. Books fly. A chair falls. The lamp snaps in half. He knocks over a stack of dishes he must've been too scared to clean. They explode across the floor like bullets.
His breathing comes out in harsh, choking bursts.
I watch.
Heat curls low in my spine.
God, the satisfaction… it's disgusting how good it feels watching him unravel.
Porn-level satisfying.
He collapses onto the floor, legs folding, body shaking so hard it looks like his bones are rattling in his skin.
He presses his palms to his eyes like he's trying to crush the fear out of his skull.
I crouch down just enough for him to hear me clearly.
"I'm leaving, Damien."
He looks up, red-eyed, wrecked.
I tilt my head, offer him the softest lie of a smile.
"I hope we never meet again."
I stand, walk to the door. He calls out, but his voice warps—half sob, half fury.
I put my hand on the doorknob, let my smirk bleed slow across my mouth. The kind that shouldn't belong on anyone who pretends to be kind.
I walk out, shutting the door on his broken breathing, his shattered pride, and the knowledge he has no idea the monster he's hiding from just held his shoulder and comforted him like a friend.
Too bad, Damien.We'll definitely meet again.