ARSHILA POV
The laptop screen glows cold and pale in the darkness of the room while I sit motionless in front of it, my fingers resting on the keyboard even though I forget what I mean to press next.
The photograph of the underground pit is still burned into my mind, and for a moment I simply stare at the folders on the screen as if they might rearrange themselves into something less horrifying if I wait long enough.
Finally I force myself to move.
My fingers slide over the trackpad and I begin scrolling again, faster this time, opening one file after another with a growing tension crawling beneath my skin.
More documents appear. More names. More records that look disturbingly organized.
Whoever compiles this does it with patience and precision, as if they are cataloguing inventory rather than human beings.
A heavy breath slips out of me.
There is no way these are Zayan's files.
The thought comes quickly and firmly, almost defensive in the way it pushes itself to the front of my mind.
Zayan is the heir to a trillion-dollar empire, a man who has been trained since childhood to run corporations, manage governments, and crush competitors without blinking.
His world revolves around boardrooms, private jets, and security briefings. Even the violent things surrounding him have purpose, discipline, rules.
The ring he uses is different.
Those fights are training sessions for elite bodyguards, brutal perhaps, but controlled. They are meant to sharpen men who already know how to fight.
There is no audience screaming for blood, no rich spectators tossing money around like they are betting on dogs.
And even if I am wrong about everything else, there is one simple fact that refuses to fit.
If these files belong to Zayan, there is absolutely no chance I would find them hidden inside a bodyguard's room like some forgotten secret.
My stomach twists again as another file opens.
This one is different.
Rows of information fill the screen in neat columns, the formatting cleaner than the previous documents. At first it looks like a schedule, but the moment I begin reading the titles my chest tightens painfully.
Auction dates.
Location codes.
Age brackets.
Reserve prices.
My eyes move down the page slowly as the meaning sinks in piece by piece, the cold logic behind the words forming something far darker than anything I imagine. These aren't charity records or adoption lists. These are sales.
Children are being listed the same way expensive antiques are listed in high-end auction houses.
Age.
Condition.
Special notes.
The room suddenly feels too small.
I read one line. Then another. Then another, hoping desperately that I misunderstand something.
I don't.
The descriptions are careful and disturbingly neutral, mentioning physical health, obedience levels, and "training potential" as if the children are livestock prepared for buyers with particular tastes.
A wave of nausea rolls through me.
Before I even realize what I am doing, my hands slam the laptop shut with a sharp crack that echoes through the room. The sound feels violent enough to cut through the silence like a gunshot.
I sit there breathing hard, staring at the black surface of the laptop as if it might open itself again and force me to keep reading.
My stomach churns painfully.
The images from the pit refuse to leave my head. Bruised children raising their fists while grown men scream and throw money above them.
Now those same children are apparently being sold afterward like they are damaged merchandise.
I push the chair back abruptly and stand up.
There is no way I can look at that screen again tonight.
My legs carry me to the bed almost automatically. I sit down slowly, rubbing my hands over my face in a weak attempt to erase the pictures burned into my mind. After a moment I reach over and switch off the light.
Darkness swallows the room.
I lie down and pull the blanket over myself, closing my eyes as if sleep might somehow wipe the night clean. For several long minutes I try to focus on breathing slowly, forcing my thoughts into quiet emptiness.
It doesn't work.
Every time I close my eyes the same images appear again, sharper than before. The underground pit. The bruised children. The cold lists describing them like objects waiting for buyers.
Sleep is impossible.
Somewhere beyond the walls of my room I hear movement.
Footsteps.
They come from Zayan's room, slow and steady, the familiar rhythm of someone pacing or crossing the floor. Normally the sound wouldn't bother me at all, but tonight every small noise feels magnified inside the silence.
Then the sky outside cracks open.
A violent roll of thunder explodes across the night, so loud it rattles the glass walls of the room. I flinch hard against the mattress, my heart jumping violently as lightning flashes across the sky.
The entire wall of glass facing the garden lights up for a split second.
For some reason it looks different tonight.
The dark trees outside press against the window like shadows watching from the other side. The reflection of my own room in the glass makes it look even deeper, like another dark space is waiting beyond it.
Another flash of lightning cuts through the sky.
My body tenses.
This is ridiculous.
I sit up abruptly and swing my legs off the bed, annoyed at myself for reacting like a child afraid of storms. Still, the feeling in my chest refuses to disappear, so I walk to the curtain and grab the thick fabric.
Before I can pull it closed, another flash explodes across the sky, lighting the entire garden in a violent burst of white.
That is enough.
I am done pretending this night is normal.
Letting out an irritated breath, I turn away from the window and walk straight to the door.
I push the door open slowly.
The room is almost completely dark except for the faint light leaking through the curtains. Zayan is already lying on the bed, one arm resting beside him, his tall figure half hidden in the shadows.
For a moment I simply stand in the doorway, unsure why I even come.
His voice breaks the silence.
"You're standing there like a ghost."
My breath catches slightly as his head turns toward me. Even in the darkness I can tell he is looking directly at me.
"Come here," he says quietly.
I hesitate for a second before walking toward the bed. My steps slow as I reach his side, stopping just beside the mattress.
His eyes study my face for a moment.
"Thunder bothering you?" he asks calmly.
I cross my arms defensively. "Not really."
A faint hint of amusement touches his voice. "You look like it is."
"I'm fine," I mutter.
He shifts slightly on the bed and moves aside, creating a clear space beside him. "Then stop pretending and lie down."
I hesitate again.
But the storm outside rumbles once more, the thunder rolling deep across the sky, and my stubborn pride loses the argument. I climb onto the bed carefully and lie down beside him.
True to his nature, Zayan doesn't move closer.
He remains on his side of the bed, leaving a comfortable distance between us as if an invisible line exists down the middle of the mattress.
And somehow that quiet space feels safer than anything else in the house.
_______________________
ZAYAN POV
The storm grows heavier as the night stretches on.
Thunder rolls across the sky like something alive, deep and violent, the sound vibrating faintly through the glass walls of the room.
I lie on my back staring at the ceiling for a moment before turning my head slightly.
She is lying beside me.
Her back faces me, her hair spread messily across the pillow, the blanket pulled halfway over her shoulder.
The distance between us is still there, the same careful space I left earlier, but I can see the tension in the way she moves.
She isn't sleeping.
Every few seconds she shifts slightly, turning from one side to the other as if her thoughts are too loud to let her rest. Her breathing isn't steady either.
It comes unevenly, the quiet rhythm of someone fighting with something inside their own head.
Another low thunder rolls through the sky.
She turns again.
Then suddenly she rolls onto her other side and faces me.
"What were you doing when you were ten to fifteen years old?"
The question hits the air so randomly that for a second I actually freeze.
I stare at her in the dim light, trying to understand where the hell that came from.
Then I answer without much thought. "I was in school. Obviously."
Her eyes narrow slightly.
"Where?"
"Not here," I reply calmly. "Switzerland. Boarding school."
She rolls her eyes immediately.
"Oh, rich brat."
A quiet breath escapes me, something close to a laugh.
"Why are you asking?"
She watches my face carefully for a moment before asking another question.
"When did you graduate?"
"After the exam."
She stares at me.
Then she bursts into a short laugh and lightly kicks my leg under the blanket.
"Haha. Very funny."
I shift slightly closer to her without thinking.
"Don't," she says quickly.
That only pulls a small smirk from me.
"What's with these strange questions tonight?"
"Nothing," she replies casually. "Just getting to know my husband thoroughly."
"Oh yeah?"
She nods once.
My eyes stay on her face.
Something is wrong.
The tension around her eyes isn't normal, and her mind is clearly somewhere else tonight. She is hiding something, turning it over and over inside her head like a puzzle she cannot solve.
Did she finally find something new about the vigilante?
If that were the case, she wouldn't be lying beside me like this. She would be buried in her notes or pacing around the house with that determined look she gets when she is chasing a lead.
So it must be something else.
My gaze drifts briefly to her lips.
A quiet curse moves through my mind.
Desire sits there like a chained animal, restrained and controlled the way it has been since the day she walked into my life. I keep it exactly where it belongs.
Locked.
"What about you?" I ask quietly. "What were you doing between ten and fourteen?"
"School," she replies immediately. "Like you said."
A small hum leaves my throat.
Another brutal thunder crashes through the sky, shaking the glass walls again.
She shifts closer suddenly.
"Give me your hand."
I raise an eyebrow but extend my arm anyway.
Instead of taking my hand, she grabs my bicep and holds onto it like it is something solid she can anchor herself to.
"Don't think too much," she mutters sleepily. "I still hate you."
A quiet chuckle escapes me.
"Yeah."
Her grip slowly loosens.
Within minutes her breathing becomes steady as sleep finally pulls her under.
I remain awake.
My eyes stay on her face in the faint stormlight spilling through the curtains.
Her expression softens completely in sleep, the tension disappearing from her features in a way that makes her look far more vulnerable than she ever allows herself to be.
My gaze lingers longer than it should.
Long enough to memorize every small detail.
The quiet rise and fall of her chest.
The faint crease between her brows.
The way her fingers still rest loosely against my arm like she forgot to let go.
Something dark and possessive stirs beneath my ribs, slow and dangerous.
Then my expression shifts.
Softness disappears.
Whatever she found tonight is clearly disturbing her.
And whatever it is—
It is now my problem to find out.
Whatever she discovers next will never escape my reach.
And whatever is stealing her sleep tonight will not remain hidden for long.