ARSHILA — POV
What if Black Wraiths and the vigilante aren't rivals.
What if they're the same person.
The thought lands wrong.
Not loud. Not dramatic.
Cold.
Like someone slid ice straight down my spine and left it there on purpose.
My shoulders tense before I tell them to. My skin prickles like I just walked through a spiderweb I can't see.
I glance at the door, then the mirror, then the corner of the room like my brain expects a jump-scare because apparently paranoia is my new personality.
I laugh under my breath. Short. Sharp. Nervous as hell.
Get a grip.
Then the bathroom door opens.
Steam spills out first, lazy and white, like it's minding its own business. Then Zayan steps through it, towel around his neck, hair damp, jaw relaxed.
He's been in there forever. A whole hour. Long enough for crimes to happen. Long enough for men to plot and hide bodies and still come out looking unfairly calm.
I'm sitting on his bed.
His side.
Like an idiot.
I blurt it before my brain asks for permission.
"I don't think Black Wraiths have Damien Cross."
He freezes mid-motion.
Actually freezes.
The towel is halfway through his hair. One arm lifted. The other hanging loose. He looks like someone hit pause on a movie at a suspiciously perfect frame.
"Who?" he asks.
Too casual.
Too clean.
My eyes narrow.
"Damien Cross," I say. "The guy who got kidnapped weeks ago. The one everyone says Black Wraiths took."
"Oh," he says.
Just—oh.
And then he turns and walks toward the closet like we're discussing weather.
I stare after him, mouth slightly open, brain screaming.
Oh??
That's it??
I just dropped a full-blown conspiracy grenade and this man gives me oh like I told him the milk expired?
"What the fuck," I mutter.
He disappears into the walk-in closet. I hear hangers slide. Fabric rustle. The sound of a shirt being pulled on like my sanity isn't actively unraveling.
My jaw tightens.
I don't like this.
I really don't like this.
He comes back out buttoning a dark shirt, sleeves half-rolled, still calm, still unreadable. Like he didn't just casually ignore the most interesting thing I've heard all week.
"Why are you not listening to me?" I snap.
He stops.
Looks at me this time.
Runs a hand through his hair, slower now, like he's resetting something internal. Then he sits down on the bed, close enough that my knee almost touches his thigh.
"I'm sorry," he says, voice even. "Tell me now."
That tone.
That calm, patient, dangerous tone.
My excitement spikes immediately because apparently my brain is broken and thrives under suspicion.
I scoot closer without realizing it, phone already in my hand like a weapon.
"Okay," I say. "Weeks ago, Damien Cross gets kidnapped. Public place. Cameras. Witnesses. Black cross symbol. Media loses its shit. Everyone agrees it's Black Wraiths."
He nods once.
"Right?"
Another nod.
"But today," I continue, leaning in, words speeding up, "a report drops saying Damien Cross transferred all his assets to orphanages. Under his name. With his signature. Clean. Legal. Verified."
He watches me closely now. Not blinking much.
"So?" he says.
I stare at him.
Hard.
"So??" I repeat. "Are you an idiot?"
A corner of his mouth twitches.
"How can a dead person transfer their money?" I shoot back. "Explain that to me."
He tilts his head slightly. That analyzing tilt. The one that makes my stomach do stupid things.
"How do you know he's dead?" he asks.
I exhale sharply. "That's the fucking point. If Black Wraiths took him, he's dead. They don't keep people alive. They don't do charity. They don't do paperwork."
"Depends," he says.
I pause. "Depends what?"
"The mood of the chief commander."
I blink. "How the hell would you know that?"
He shrugs lightly. "I'm just saying."
"Shut up," I snap automatically. Then, catching myself, "No—don't shut up. Listen."
He smirks and nods like I'm indulging him instead of the other way around.
"If Damien transferred his money," I say, "then either he's alive or he never got kidnapped by Black Wraiths in the first place."
"What?" Zayan says, brows lifting slightly.
"And if he never got kidnapped," I continue, momentum building, "then someone staged it. But no one fakes Black Wraiths. No one's that suicidal."
I breathe in fast. My heart is racing now, thoughts snapping together like puzzle pieces that don't want to be ignored.
"There's another pattern," I say. "Men like him. Powerful. Untouchable. They disappear. Their money doesn't get stolen. It gets redistributed. Orphanages. Shelters. Victim funds."
He doesn't interrupt.
That alone is suspicious.
"i think it's the vigilante," I say quietly. "Five years. No face. No identity. He kidnaps. Forces confessions. Kills them. Leaves nothing behind except funding for victims."
I look straight at him.
"This looks like that."
Silence stretches.
Zayan stands abruptly.
The bed dips. The air shifts. He moves past me like he needs space, like my words are something physical he has to step away from.
"Why are you so curious about a fucking crime?" he asks, voice flat now.
"It's interesting," I say, immediately defensive. "It makes sense. It fits."
He shakes his head once, sharp. "It's not."
And then he walks out of the room.
Just like that.
The door closes softly behind him, which somehow makes it worse.
I sit there, staring at the empty doorway, my pulse loud in my ears.
"What the hell was that?" I whisper.
I don't think. I move.
I'm off the bed and out the door before my brain finishes replaying his face, his tone, the way he bailed like I cracked open something radioactive.
My feet slap against the floor as I chase him down the hallway, pulse loud, irritation louder.
"Zayan," I call. "Why are you avoiding me?"
He doesn't stop. Doesn't even slow. Just keeps walking like I'm a mild inconvenience instead of a problem with legs.
Then he turns suddenly, right under the staircase, and asks—calm as hell, like we didn't just almost argue about murder.
"Do you know how to cook?"
I freeze so hard my soul disconnects from my body.
What.
I blink at him. Once. Twice. My brain scrambles, flipping pages, looking for the chapter where that sentence makes sense. It doesn't exist. It's not even in the same book.
"That's… so out of nowhere," I say slowly. "And no. I don't."
He nods like he expected that answer. Like this was always the plan. Then he reaches out and grabs my wrist, firm but not rough, and my stomach drops straight through the floor.
"Then come," he says. "I'll teach you."
I gasp as he drags me under the staircase and straight into the kitchen, my free hand flailing like that's going to save me.
The space is dark, stupidly dark, like electricity personally offended him. For half a second I think he forgot to pay the bill, then I realize this is intentional.
Because of course it is.
As soon as we step in, small lights flicker on one by one. Low. Warm. Soft enough to feel illegal. Not bright bulbs, not practical lighting. This looks like a candlelit dinner designed by a man who thinks ambience is foreplay.
My heart starts acting like it pays rent here.
He lets go of my wrist and walks behind the open counter like he owns oxygen. Then, without warning, he pulls his shirt over his head and tosses it onto the couch like it personally insulted him.
I choke.
He was wearing that shirt two minutes ago.
Now his back is bare, muscles moving easy and fluid as he reaches for vegetables and a knife, like stripping in front of me is just part of the recipe. I stand there staring like an idiot, brain buffering, mouth dry.
He starts chopping. Fast. Clean. Controlled.
It's unfair how good he looks doing domestic shit. The way his forearm flexes, veins showing, shoulders relaxed like this is therapy. My thoughts immediately go feral.
Why is he good at this. Why is this hot. Why am I attracted to knife skills.
"Why are you so good at this?" I blurt, mostly to stop myself from combusting.
He doesn't look up. "Because I like control," he says casually. "And because feeding people shuts them up."
I gag. Loud. Dramatic. On purpose.
"You're disgusting," I say, covering my mouth like that'll save me from my own brain.
He smirks, finally glancing at me. "Do you wanna learn?"
My mouth opens to say yes because I'm weak and curious and apparently suicidal. But my brain slams the brakes.
No. I cannot get closer to this man. That's how people die or fall in love or both.
"I—" I start.
He yanks me into him.
I gasp, slamming into his chest, my palms landing flat on his bare skin. It's warm. Solid. Way too real. My fingers curl before I can stop them, traitors to the cause.
He turns me around smoothly, positioning me in front of the chopping board like he's done this a thousand times. He places a knife in my hand, his fingers brushing mine, slow and deliberate.
"Chop," he says.
I do. Kind of. The pieces come out thick and uneven and frankly disrespectful to the vegetable.
He clicks his tongue. "Not like this. Don't cut your finger. That's too thick. Make it thinner."
My jaw tightens. My patience evaporates.
"I swear to god I'll cut you instead," I mutter.
He laughs under his breath and steps closer.
Too close.
Now he's behind me, his arms sliding under mine, hands covering mine on the knife handle. His chest presses against my back, no space, no mercy.
His breath hits the side of my neck and my entire nervous system lights up like a crime scene.
"Relax," he murmurs. "Let me guide you."
He moves my hand. Slow. Controlled. The knife glides, perfect slices forming while my brain short-circuits completely.
I'm breathing too fast. Too loud. My thoughts go off the rails, filthy and unhelpful and absolutely not about cooking.
My mind starts imagining things it has no business imagining, and I hate myself for it while also not stopping.
This feels illegal. This feels intentional. This feels like a trap.
"Yeah," he says quietly, voice dropping into something smooth and dangerous. "Like that."
I shiver.
His body is pressed fully against mine now. There's no pretending. No gap. My back knows every line of his chest. My legs feel weak and furious about it.
"Focus on here," he says.
I want to elbow him. I want to scream. I want to do both at the same time.
Instead, I stop cutting and spin, shoving him back with both hands. "You're torturing me."
He stumbles half a step, amused, then catches my wrist again before I can escape. In one smooth move, he pulls me back in, turns me, and pins me against the counter. His hands land on either side of me, trapping me there.
I swallow.
"Zayan," I say, warning laced with something softer.
He lifts a finger and presses it gently against my lips. "Shh."
His eyes are dark now. Focused. Dangerous.
"I said focus," he murmurs. "But you're making this hard."
I look away, anywhere but his face. He smirks, and I catch a glimpse of his fangs, sharp and brief, and my body reacts like it recognizes a predator.
He looks at my eyes. Then my lips. Then back to my eyes.
My brain is screaming at me to move, to say something, to run. My mouth refuses to cooperate. My heart is doing parkour in my chest.
He leans in.
His breath brushes my lips. Close enough to feel. Close enough to promise.
I close my eyes, bracing for my first kiss like it's about to ruin my life.
And then his voice drops, low and lethal, right against my mouth.
"YOU OWE A KISS TO THE VIGILANTE."
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Author's Note:
Starting today, updates will be posted daily instead of three days a week. Thank you for your continued support!