ARSHILA — POV
"YOU OWE A KISS TO THE VIGILANTE."
My eyes snap open so fast it almost hurts.
"What the fuck?" I shove him hard, palms flat on his chest, more force than necessary because my body is already vibrating with too many things at once. "Why are you always talking about that?"
He steps back easily, like he expected it, like he planned for my reaction three seconds before I had it. A low chuckle rolls out of him, calm and lazy and infuriatingly amused.
"Why are you getting angry?" he asks, head tilting slightly, eyes still dark, still sharp. "It's just a sentence."
"It's not just a sentence," I snap, hands clenched at my sides. My heart is still racing like I just ran from something feral. Or toward it. Hard to tell. "You keep bringing him up. Like you want a reaction."
His smile deepens, slow and knowing. "And you give one every time."
I grind my teeth. God, I hate how right that feels.
"Don't do that," I say. "Don't poke me like that, Adam fucking Zayan Tavarian."
The kitchen goes very still.
His brows lift a fraction. Not shocked. Interested.
"Oh?" he says softly. "Full name?"
I don't answer. I don't trust my mouth not to betray me again. The heat in my face has nothing to do with embarrassment and everything to do with the way he says things like he owns the moment.
He watches me for a second longer, eyes unreadable now, like he's deciding whether to pull me back in or let me go.
I choose for him.
I turn on my heel and storm out of the kitchen, pulse loud, thoughts louder, skin still buzzing where his hands were like my body didn't get the memo that I'm done.
Behind me, I hear his quiet laugh.
Not mocking.
Satisfied.
And that somehow pisses me off even more.
__________
ZAYAN — POV
I watch her walk away.
The sway of her shoulders. The tension in her back. The way she doesn't look back because if she does, she knows she won't stop. The smirk stays on my face for exactly two seconds after she clears the doorway.
Then it drops.
Not slowly. Not theatrically.
It's just gone.
The kitchen feels different without her noise in it. Quieter. Sharper. Like the room knows something almost snapped and is waiting to see if it should clean up blood or broken dishes.
I rest my palms on the counter, shoulders rolling forward, breath finally leaving my chest. My pulse is steady, but my head is loud. Too loud for a man who prides himself on control.
She didn't miss it.
That's the problem.
Most people dance around the edges. They see patterns and then look away because patterns are scary when they point back at you. She didn't look away. She followed the thread like it owed her money.
Black Wraiths. Vigilante. Two names. Same shadow.
She fucking saw it.
Not the full shape. Not the face. But the spine of it. The logic. The intent. The way charity shows up only after punishment. The way men disappear and their money suddenly grows a conscience.
I drag a hand down my face, jaw tight, breath slow.
Damn.
This girl.
I straighten, rolling my shoulders back, forcing the calm back into my body like a habit I've earned.
The lights hum softly above me. The knife still sits on the board, vegetables half-chopped, abandoned mid-domestic lie.
She's fucking smart.
Annoyingly so.
The kind of smart that doesn't announce itself. Doesn't perform. Just observes and stores and waits. The kind that gets people killed if they don't respect it.
The kind I absolutely should not be pulling into my orbit.
My mouth curves despite myself. Not a smile. Something darker. Something honest.
She didn't flinch at the idea of monsters wearing different masks. She leaned in. Got curious. Got angry. Got closer.
That fire in her eyes wasn't fear.
It was interest.
And yeah.
That turns me on.
--------------
The room smells like iron and damp concrete.
It's always the smell that settles first. Not the sight.
Damien Cross hangs where I left him. Wrists bound to the chair arms. Head tipped forward like sleep won a long argument.
His body looks smaller than it should. Not thin in a tragic way. Thin in a used-up way. Like something valuable that's been drained and forgotten.
Fingers? Gone. Stumps crusted over, a couple still oozing. He's slumped forward, chest barely rising. Sleeping? Knocked out? Who gives a fuck. As long as he's breathing, we're good.
Blood is everywhere, just not fresh. Dried layers. Old work. Patient work.
I shut the door behind me. The sound is soft. Final.
He doesn't stir.
Good.
I take my time. Set the knife on the metal table. Pull the lighter from my pocket. The cheap click echoes too loud in the quiet.
I roll the blade slowly over the flame. Back and forth. Back and forth. Steel darkens, then glows. A dull red. Not dramatic. Functional.
The blade hums faintly when I lift it. Heat warps the air around it.
Damien twitches when the knife's ready. Maybe he smells the burn. I grab his wrist— the one with the missing digits— and jam the hot blade right into the back of his hand. It sizzles on contact, skin popping like bacon.
He jolts awake, eyes bulging, mouth ripping open in a scream that bounces off the walls. Raw, guttural. Fuck, it's music
Not words. Just sound. Raw. Tearing itself out of him like it's trying to escape first. His whole body jerks, chair rattling, restraints biting in. Tears pour instantly. No pride left to slow them.
"Don't be dramatic," I say, flat.
He gasps, tears streaming down his filthy face. Sobs rack his body, but his voice comes out wrecked—hoarse, broken, like sandpaper on gravel.
Days without water will do that. Satisfying as hell, hearing this prick beg through a throat that's barely holding together.
"Please," he croaks. "Please kill me. I can't— I can't take this anymore. Please."
I tilt my head. Watch him. Really watch him.
Awful how fast people learn to beg when the illusion cracks.
"Aww, baby" I say softly. "I can't."
He looks up at me then. Eyes blown wide. Hope flickers like a dying bulb.
"Didn't I already tell you I won't give you the mercy of a quick death? You forget already?
His mouth opens. Closes. He shakes his head, tears streaking down into the dirt on his chest.
"What did I even do wrong?" he cries. "What the fuck did I do? I didn't kill anyone like you—"
My hand moves before he finishes.
The slap snaps his head sideways. Hard enough to ring the room. I grab his jaw and force his face back toward me.
"How fucking dare you," I say quietly. "You don't get to talk like that."
He reels, blood trickling from his split lip. I follow up with a punch straight to his nose. Crunch. Fresh blood sprays.
"I should have cut out your fucking filthy tongue already. But I've got plans for it later. That's the only reason you're still yapping."
He breaks then. Full body. Crying like something cornered and small. No words left. Just sound.
I straighten and look at the guards.
"Bring him food."
They nod. No hesitation. No curiosity.
When the tray comes, I step back and watch.
They set it on his lap, unchain one hand just enough for him to grab the fork.
Damien stares at it for a second, like he can't believe it's real. Then he dives in. Greedy as fuck. Shoveling meat into his mouth, chewing fast, barely swallowing before the next bite.
Juices drip down his chin.A fucking millionaire, reduced to starving animal.
I feel the smirk pull at my mouth. Slow. Earned.
Evil satisfaction curls in my gut. Watching him devour it like it's his last meal—because who knows, it might be.
"How's the food?" I ask mildly. "Good meat, right?"
He doesn't answer. Just eats faster. Desperate. Greedy. Terrified it'll disappear if he slows down.
I wait.
Then I lean in just enough for him to hear me over his own breathing.
"That's your brother, Daniel "
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