ZAYAN — POV
"How's the food?" I ask mildly. "Good meat, right?"
He doesn't answer.
He eats faster.
Fork scraping metal. Jaw working too hard. Panic leaking out of every movement. His eyes keep flicking to the tray like it might vanish if he blinks too long. Grease coats his fingers. Blood coats everything else.
I stay quiet.
Let the room do its thing.
Let the silence stretch until it gets uncomfortable enough to start chewing back.
Then I lean forward just enough for my voice to cut through his breathing.
"That's your brother, Daniel."
The fork freezes mid-air.
Not drops. Not clatters.
Freezes.
His whole body locks like something just unplugged his spine. I watch it ripple through him. The delay. The processing. The brain scrambling for a safer interpretation.
I give him none.
I look at him without expression. No smirk. No edge. Just facts.
He starts shaking.
"What?" he whispers. "What did you say?"
I settle my elbows on my knees. Get comfortable. Close enough now that he can see the flecks of blood dried on my cuffs. Close enough that he knows this isn't a joke. Not a bluff. Not theater.
"I said you're eating your brother, Daniel."
The sound he makes is ugly.
He gags. Spits the food out in chunks. Then it's over. Vomit spills down his front, splattering the floor, mixing with everything already there. He retches so hard the chair jerks. Tears stream. Snot. No dignity left to protect.
I lean back and watch.
"He was cooked well," I add casually. "Professional chef. Knew what he was doing."
He vomits again.
Harder.
I smile then. Slow. Mean. The kind that doesn't bother hiding.
"Must be delicious."
He sobs. Loud now. Broken. Words trip over each other as he tries to crawl out of it with sound alone.
"Why?" he cries. "Why did you do this? Why?"
I don't answer.
I reach for the knife.
The motion is smooth. Practiced. Muscle memory doing the work while my mind stays quiet. I don't stand. Don't wind up. I throw it from where I'm sitting.
The blade buries itself into his left chest with a wet, solid sound.
He screams.
The chair slams back as his body jerks against it, breath tearing itself apart in his throat. Blood blooms fast, dark and spreading. His hands claw uselessly at the restraints, at the knife, at the air.
"I've got pretty good aim," I say calmly.
I stand.
Walk toward him while he's still choking on pain. Each step measured. No rush. No adrenaline. Just purpose. I stop right in front of him and look down.
"Your Daniel," I say, almost conversational. "Cocky bastard. Had a lot of audacity for someone that disposable."
He wheezes. Eyes glassy. Shock setting in.
"From the first time I saw him," I continue, "I knew I wanted him first."
I tap the knife hilt with one finger.
"And yeah. I did it."
His crying turns thin. Weak. Body sagging as the blood loss starts doing my work for me.
"Don't worry," I add, straightening. "You've still got your mate Marcus. Alive. For now."
I step back.
"I can't keep you here forever," I say lightly. "So I hope you see hell soon."
I turn to the guards.
"Make it quick."
They move immediately.
I walk toward the door. The rain outside is louder now, drumming against concrete like it's impatient. My hand pauses on the handle for half a second.
Time to play dirty.
-------------
ARSHILA — POV
I'm sitting on the bench at the tennis court pretending I'm not absolutely losing my mind.
The sun's out. The air's warm. Everything smells like grass and money and bad decisions.
And there are four men on the court.
Four.
Which should be illegal.
Zayan is on the far side, white tennis shirt clinging in that unfair way. Sweat darkens the fabric at his chest. His shorts sit low on his hips like they're daring gravity to argue.
His thighs flex when he moves.
I hate my eyes.
I really, really hate my eyes.
"Baby," Razmir says suddenly, voice right by my ear. "You're making it so obvious."
I flinch like I've been caught committing a crime.
"What?" I snap, jerking my head toward him.
He grins, feral and pleased with himself. "You're eye-fucking him."
"I am absolutely not," I say immediately. Too fast. Guilty-fast.
Eshan snorts from the court. "Yeah," he calls. "It's painfully obvious."
"Fuck off," I mutter, crossing my arms like that'll stop my pupils from betraying me.
Right on cue, Zayan looks over.
Perfect timing. Of course.
He lifts the hem of his shirt and wipes sweat off his forehead.
His abs flash.
Not flexed. Not posed. Just there. Casual. Like he doesn't know what kind of damage that does to a human nervous system.
"Fuck," I whisper without permission.
I look away so hard my neck almost cramps.
Rafaen laughs. "Why don't you play with us?"
I glance back, startled. "I don't know how to play."
Eshan raises a brow. "Then what do you know?"
I shrug. "Admire hot men."
Silence.
Then chaos.
Razmir wheezes. Rafaen bends over laughing. Eshan loses the ball entirely.
Zayan stops moving.
His jaw tightens just a little before he looks straight at me.
"Mrs. Adam," he says evenly, "you're fucking married."
The court explodes.
"Ohhh," Razmir howls. "Husband mode on."
Eshan clutches his chest. "Did you hear that tone?"
I blink. Mrs? That word lands weird in my head. Heavy. Intimate. Dangerous.
Eshan suddenly grins like he remembered something unholy. "Do you guys remember Thailand?"
Razmir and Rafaen lose it instantly.
I frown. "Why were you in Thailand?"
"Vacation," Eshan says. "We were chilling. Playing. Being idiots."
Razmir cuts in, laughing. "And we ran into a fortune teller."
They're laughing too hard to breathe.
"Speak first," I say. "Then laugh."
Razmir wipes his eyes. "She said Zayan has a strong sex drive."
My brain stalls.
Full system freeze.
Zayan snaps, "Shut up, Razmir."
Eshan is crying now. "She said it with her whole chest."
"And?" I ask slowly.
Razmir grins. "But he doesn't use the tool."
"What does that mean??"
Eshan howls. "He's a virgin. For fucking Twenty-five years."
Everything stops.
I stare.
"Virgin?" I say. "Zayan?"
Eshan laughs harder. "Don't tell me you didn't know."
"You're joking," I say weakly.
Razmir shakes his head. "Nope."
"This man," Eshan adds, pointing at Zayan, "has been untouched for decades."
Zayan swears and throws a tennis ball straight at Eshan's chest.
"Shut the fuck up."
I don't say anything.
But my brain?
My brain goes feral.
Virgin?
With that face?
That body?
Those hands?
What the hell?
Zayan looks at me. "Don't think too much."
Too late, asshole.
Virgin.
The word keeps bouncing around my skull like it's drunk and looking for a fight.
Virgin… Zayan?
That man could sneeze in a room and people would line up to volunteer. He has the face. The body. The money. The quiet "I'll ruin your life without raising my voice" thing going on. Women would crawl. Men too, probably. No judgment. Facts are facts.
And yet.
Untouched.
I stare at the court again, trying to match the math. It doesn't add up. It's like saying fire is cold or rich people don't lie.
Five months.
That's how long we've been married.
Five whole months and we haven't touched. Not really. No crossed lines. No accidents. No late-night mistakes. Just space. Control. Silence that feels intentional.
My jaw tightens.
Maybe he doesn't like me.
The thought lands sharper than it should. I roll it around anyway, like pressing a bruise. Maybe I'm not his type.
I hate that my chest feels tight over that.
Another thought slides in, unwanted but loud.
What if he doesn't like girls?
I choke on air and sit up straighter.
No. No way. I've seen the way he looks. The way his eyes track movement. The way his jaw locks when he's holding back something feral. That isn't disinterest. That's restraint with teeth.
Still.
My eyes flick back to the court just in time to see Eshan score. He whoops, drops the racket, and jogs straight into Zayan, wrapping an arm around his shoulders like an overexcited golden retriever.
Zayan laughs. Real laugh. Easy. Unguarded.
My brain short-circuits.
…What the hell?
They stand close. Too close. Sweat-slick. Comfortable. Eshan says something in his ear and Zayan smirks, shoving him off with a light hand to the chest.
I squint.
Why am I squinting?
Am I… analyzing their body language?
God, get a grip.
My brain immediately betrays me again. What if he's gay and married me because society? What if that's why he never touches me? What if I'm literally living next to a man who will never want me and—
No.
I stop myself hard.
I'm not buying that. Not for a second.
Gay men don't look at women like he looks at me when I'm not paying attention. Gay men don't track my mouth when I talk too much. Gay men don't get that look—dark, heated, restrained—when I walk away mid-argument.
And gay men definitely don't feel like a loaded weapon standing too close.
Zayan glances toward the bench.
Toward me.
Our eyes lock.
Something sharp moves through the air. Not anger. Not humor. Something quieter. He doesn't smile. He doesn't look away either.
My stomach flips like it knows something I don't.
Eshan says something again. Laughs. Tries to pull him back into the game.
Zayan shrugs him off this time. Gentle but firm. His attention stays on me for a second longer than necessary.
My skin heats up. Annoyingly. Traitorously.
Virgin or not, that man is dangerous.
And the worst part?
I don't think it's because he doesn't want to touch.
I think it's because he wants to.
And that thought?
That thought sits low and slow and hot in my chest, curling there like it owns the place.
-------
The living room is loud without saying anything.
The TV is on. Some afternoon show with fake smiles and too much lighting. I'm not watching it. It's just there so the house doesn't feel like it's listening to me think.
I'm on the couch with my notebook balanced on my thigh.
Pen in hand. Blank page pretending it's innocent.
I'm supposed to be writing.
Romance novel. Enemies. Tension. Slow burn. The kind where people almost touch and it ruins them more than actually touching ever could.
Funny how life copies art just to mock you.
I write a sentence.
Cross it out.
Write another.
Cross that too.
My mind refuses to stay in the room. It keeps sprinting back to the court like it forgot something important. Like a dumbass dog running back to a crime scene.
Mrs. Adam.
The way he said it.
Calm. Flat. Possessive without trying.
Not loud. Not teasing. Just a statement. Like my name belongs next to his now whether I like it or not.
Heat crawls up my neck.
I groan quietly and drop my head back against the couch.
Why the hell did that do things to me?
It's not even romantic. It's not sweet. It's literally just… accurate.
Still.
My mouth curves before I can stop it.
I press my lips together, annoyed, then fail completely and let out a stupid little giggle.
Actual giggle.
Like an idiot.
I smack my own thigh. "Get it together," I mutter.
My pen taps the paper. Tap. Tap. Tap.
I try to focus.
I write: He looks at her like he's already decided something dangerous.
Not bad.
Then my brain ruins it.
Zayan wiping sweat with his shirt. Abs flashing. That slow lift. That casual confidence like he doesn't know bodies react to him on a chemical level.
Virgin.
I pause mid-word.
My stomach does that annoying flip again.
Strong sex drive but untouched.
That's not normal. That's not coincidence. That's a man holding a leash on himself so tight it's probably cutting skin.
Why?
Because of me?
Because he doesn't want me?
Or because if he starts, he won't stop?
The thought slides in, slow and hot and completely uninvited.
My skin warms. My legs shift. I hate myself a little.
I scribble aggressively just to burn it out of my system.
The TV volume jumps slightly as the program cuts.
The anchor's voice changes.
Drops.
That polished casual tone tightens into something serious. Clean. Professional. Sharp around the edges.
"…breaking news coming in this hour."
I stop writing.
My pen hovers.
The room feels different all of a sudden. Like the air thickened without warning.
The anchor looks straight into the camera.
"DC Group former director Damien Cross has been found dead in his apartment "