ARSHILA — POV
"Breaking news. A photograph believed to be the chief commander of the Black Wraiths—known as Zy—has been leaked to the public."
The anchor's voice tightens, like even she knows this isn't supposed to be on a screen.
The TV cuts to the image.
A masked man sits on a bench in what looks like an industrial locker room. Metal lockers line the background, scuffed and ugly and honest about it.
No luxury. No polish. Just use. He wears a tight black shirt pulled across a muscular build, tactical gloves, camo pants. A gun rests in one hand like it's an extension, not a threat.
His posture is low and grounded, balanced on the balls of his feet. Elbows on knees. Not resting. Waiting.
Only his eyes are visible. Sharp. Watchful. Dead serious. Like the camera annoyed him by existing.
The lighting is cruel in a deliberate way. It pulls out veins in his forearms, the rough texture of the gloves, the hard angles of his stance.
Nothing dramatic. Nothing cinematic. Just quiet readiness. Like violence paused mid-breath.
My stomach does a weird little flip.
Because the body is… familiar.
Too familiar.
Broad shoulders. Lean muscle. That exact proportion between chest and arms that shouldn't be legal. He looks young too. Controlled youth. The kind that survives things.
I look down.
Zayan's head is still on my lap. Same shoulders. Same build. Same annoying perfection. Different context. Same body.
My mouth moves before my brain can stop it.
"That guy looks like you."
Zayan opens his eyes slowly, like a cat deciding whether to murder or nap. He looks at the TV without moving his head.
"That's me," he says.
I laugh. Loud. Sharp. Immediate.
"Okay," I say, waving a hand. "Then I'm the Queen of England."
"I'm telling the truth," he replies, calm as hell.
"Yeah," I say, nodding like I'm indulging a child. "And I'm late for my coronation."
His mouth curves. That damn smirk. The one that feels like a challenge wrapped in charm.
I glance back at the screen, squinting. "I mean… he does have a hot body. Like yours."
Silence.
His eyes open fully now.
"Oh?" he says. "So I have a hot body?"
Fuck.
Why did I say that.
"I—no—nothing," I rush. "Words. Brain glitch. Ignore me."
I clear my throat and point at the TV, desperate. "But seriously. He looks young. How the fuck does someone that young become chief commander of Black Wraiths?"
Zayan closes his eyes again, like this conversation is a massage.
"Maybe he's good at what he does," he says. "Maybe people follow competence."
I hum. "Or maybe people follow fear."
"Sometimes those are the same thing," he says easily.
I swallow. Then, because my mouth hates me, I add, "Also… really sexy body. Just saying."
He lifts his head an inch. "Excuse me?"
I stare straight ahead. "I said what I said."
He looks up at me now, eyes dark, unreadable, searching my face like I'm a locked file he wants access to. I feel exposed. Warm. Too seen.
I break first, turning away. "Get up. You're heavy."
"No," he says, settling back. "It's comfortable."
"I'm not furniture."
"Disagree."
I open my mouth to argue.
My stomach chooses violence.
A very clear, very loud growl fills the room.
We freeze.
Both of us.
I want the couch to swallow me whole.
I stare at the wall like it personally betrayed me.
Zayan's shoulders start shaking.
"Are you hungry?" he asks, amused.
"No," I snap.
"Then what was that sound?"
"My belly expressing its disgust at your presence."
He laughs. A real one. Deep. Warm. Fangs flashing for half a second before he controls it. My chest does that stupid thing again.
"I'll make you food," he says, finally sitting up.
He stands and walks toward the kitchen like this entire interaction didn't just short-circuit my nervous system.
I stay frozen on the couch, face hot, heart loud, mind absolutely wrecked.
I hate him.
I want him.
I need a drink.
I need him back on my lap.
Fuck.
_______________________
ZAYAN — POV
I walk toward the kitchen with that smirk still stuck on my face, the annoying kind that refuses to leave even when it should.
My shoulders feel loose. Too loose. That only happens when something goes exactly the way I want it to.
She saw me.
On the screen. Masked. Armed. Still breathing violence like it's oxygen.
And she still denied it.
Fuck. She's unbelievable.
Mine, though. Completely. Even when she's arguing with reality like it personally offended her.
The hallway lights stay dim. The house hums low, expensive silence doing what it does best. I hear footsteps fall into rhythm behind me without needing to look.
Izar never sneaks. He doesn't need to.
"As you ordered," he says, voice steady, controlled. "The photo's been given to the media."
I don't stop walking. I don't turn.
"I just saw that," I say.
He matches my pace. "That was your gift for her?"
I huff a breath that might pass for a laugh if you squint. "Yeah."
He actually chuckles this time, quiet and sharp. "Does it work?"
I reach the kitchen doorway and pause there, one hand braced on the frame.
"Her subconscious recognized me," I say.
Izar frowns. I can feel it without looking. "What?"
"She denied it consciously," I continue, calm. "But her body didn't. Her eyes didn't. The pause was there. The heat. That second where her brain stalled."
Izar lets out a slow breath. "You're insane."
"I know."
"She didn't say anything."
"She doesn't need to," I say. "She'll remember this image later. When she gets the real clue. This will click into place like a loaded gun."
"That's not romantic," Izar mutters.
I glance back at him now, eyebrow lifting. "I'm not trying to be."
He shakes his head. "Chairman Tavarian asked you to review the Tavarian Medica report. It's out."
I sigh, long and irritated. "That old man never sleeps."
"He wants your notes by morning."
"Put that shit in my study," I say. "I've got work right now."
Izar nods once. He turns and disappears back into the corridor like a shadow with manners.
I step into the kitchen and shut the world out behind me.
First thing I do is peel my shirt off and toss it over the counter. The air hits my skin, cool and grounding.
I wash my hands, slow, methodical. The sink light throws sharp lines across my forearms. Veins visible. Familiar. Honest.
I pull vegetables from the fridge. Carrots. Peppers. Onions. Simple things. Real things. The knife feels right in my hand.
The chopping starts steady. Controlled. Each cut clean. No rush.
Her laugh still echoes in my head. That stupid little sound she makes when she's embarrassed but pretending she's not.
The way her stomach betrayed her. The way she looked away like distance could save her.
She saw a monster on TV and still trusted the man with his head on her lap.
That does something ugly and tender to my chest.
I chop slower, letting the thought sit instead of pushing it down.
the same hands that cook for her also break people for information.
That kind of contradiction has a cost.
The knife thuds against the board. Rhythmic. Calming.
When will she realize that the man who hunts monsters is the same one who tucks her in with silence and patience?
When will it hit her that Zy and Zayan aren't two worlds but one spine?
But one day
She's going to figure it out.
She will.
And
I'm not hiding.
I'm waiting.