"If I say to someone, 'he's the kind of man who'll kill someone if they touch her wrong'… what do you think that person gets from that?"
The words leave my mouth like a dare. Or maybe a confession. I don't fucking know.
Zayan's fingers pause on the third button of his shirt.
He doesn't blink. Doesn't look confused. Doesn't ask me why I'm suddenly philosophical at midnight.
He just stands there. Still. Too still.
"What did you understand from it?"
My voice comes out slower this time. Lower.
Almost careful. Which pisses me off for some reason.
He watches me for a beat that stretches and stretches — long enough for my heartbeat to get loud in my ears.
Then he moves.
Every step he takes feels like the oxygen in the room is being pulled straight out of my lungs.
He doesn't rush. He doesn't hesitate.
Just walks — steady, controlled, like he's already decided how this conversation is going to go and I'm just here to catch up.
He stops right in front of me.
Close enough that I can feel his warmth.
Close enough that if I breathe too hard, my mouth might brush his shirt.
I tilt my chin up, refusing to shrink.
He's looking down at me like I'm something he has already figured out — and he's just waiting for me to realize the same.
His voice is quiet when he speaks. But it hits like a punch.
"If you say that to someone…"
His eyes stay locked on mine.
No softness. No anger. Just truth. Unfiltered.
"Then you just revealed your weakness."
It lands in my chest — sharp, immediate, fucking accurate.
Like he just held up a mirror and I didn't like what I saw.
Weakness.
My weakness.
Him.
Oh fuck.
Oh fuck.
So did I just say that to Rafaen?
Did I literally tell the prince of the country:
Hey, by the way, the only person who could destroy me is Zayan so don't try it.
Did he catch that?
Did I look that stupid?
Did I actually hand someone leverage over me like a fucking charity donation??
My stomach twists.
I look away, stand up too fast, try to force space into the room that suddenly has none.
"Okay," I say, stupid and flat. "Thanks for the input."
I turn to leave — because I need air and distance and a brain transplant — but his fingers close around my wrist.
Not rough.
Not yanking.
Just firm.
Intentional.
He pulls me back, turning me to face him again.
I end up right in front of him, our chests almost touching, breath mixing.
"You've been avoiding me for two days straight."
His voice is low. Not angry. Just… certain.
"And now you're doing it again over one stupid question?"
I swallow. My mouth tastes like static.
"I'm not avoiding you."
He doesn't blink.
"Oh?"
I hate how that one syllable hits harder than a whole monologue.
"You're the one who misunderstood," I snap before I can think about it.
His jaw ticks.
He leans in just a fraction — not enough to touch, just enough to trap me where I stand.
"Oh?"
His breath is warm on my cheek.
"You still think I have a girlfriend?"
My heart jumps in the dumbest, most revealing way.
I look up at him slowly.
"No."
It comes out almost whisper-soft.
Pathetic.
Honest.
Real.
His eyes drop to my mouth for half a second — half a second that feels like a bruise forming.
He doesn't smirk.
Doesn't comment.
Doesn't say good.
He just looks at me.
And it's worse.
So much worse.
Because now the silence is loud and heavy and crackling with every single thing we're not saying.
And for some reason, I can't look away.
Not tonight.
His eyes stay on me. Dark. Focused. Too aware.
The air between us is so fucking tight I feel like one wrong inhale might snap something in me.
Then he says it. Quiet. Plain. Sharp as a wire pulled tight:
"What did Rafaen say to you?"
My brain freezes so hard I swear the world goes white for a second.
Yeah. That.
That's the one question I cannot answer.
Because how the fuck am I supposed to say: Oh nothing, he just walked in, stood too close, asked me who I think you are, then I basically confessed you own my entire emotional nervous system like a fucking dog collar.
Yeah, no.
I don't breathe. I don't blink. My pulse is just there, loud, messy, stupid.
My mouth opens. Nothing comes out.
His grip on my wrist doesn't tighten — it doesn't need to.
He's not holding me to stop me from leaving.
He's holding me so I have to face him.
Well, fucking hell.
"He said nothing," I finally get out. The words feel thin, stretched, like cheap fabric. "He just… asked where you were."
I keep my eyes on his throat instead of his face — because looking at him right now is like sticking my hand into a live socket.
But I feel it — his eyes on me.
He doesn't call me out.
Doesn't ask again.
Just watches me like he can hear the part I didn't say.
And then:
"Hm."
A sound. Just a sound.
But it slides right under my skin like a blade tucked between ribs — quiet, precise, devastating.
He lets go of my wrist.
Not slowly.
Not dramatically.
Just… lets go.
And wow, the absence of his hand feels worse than the hold.
I step back faster than I mean to.
Not running.
Not scared.
Just—my chest needs fucking space.
The room feels like it's too full of him and I'm not built to handle that right now.
I walk out. Fast. Not looking back.
My room door shuts behind me. The click sounds too loud in the quiet hallway.
I lock it. Because I need to, not because he would come in.
I stand there, back against the door, breathing like I just ran a marathon I didn't sign up for.
Then I slide down to the floor.
Not gracefully.
Just… down.
My heartbeat is everywhere. Neck, ribs, fucking fingertips.
I drag both hands over my face.
What the fuck was that.
No really.
WHAT. THE. FUCK.
I just told a whole prince that Zayan is my weak spot.
Then turned around and looked Zayan in the face and acted like I didn't just hand away the only loaded weapon in my emotional closet.
And the worst part?
He knew.
He fucking knew.
He didn't yell. Didn't smirk. Didn't ask.
He just knew.
I drop my head back against the door with a dull thud.
This is so stupid.
I'm so stupid.
Why him. Why is it him.
Why does he get under my skin like he owns it.
Why does he walk into a room and my pulse does that thing like it's been waiting for him and I hate it.
I breathe out. Long. Shaky.
The room smells like sandalwood and his fucking cologne because of course it does. The whole house smells like him. He's everywhere. In the walls. In the air. In my fucking blood at this point.
I close my eyes.
I should be terrified. I should be angry. I should be anything else.
But all I feel is that weight.
His voice. His eyes. The way his presence sits against my skin like heat I can't shake.
And the worse part?
He didn't do anything. He didn't touch me. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't threaten me.
He just stood there.
And I felt owned.
Not in a soft way. Not in a romantic way. In a way that says: If he wanted to ruin me, he wouldn't have to lift a finger.
Because he already could.
I bury my face in my knees, fingers digging into my hair.
I'm in so much trouble.
And I don't even know when I started calling it trouble instead of him.
_________________________________
ZAYAN — POV
Two days.
Two whole fucking days and I still feel the ghost of her pulse under my grip.
I've crossed continents without blinking. Signed deals that shift economies like it's just Tuesday. I've walked into courtrooms and boardrooms and war rooms with men who would kill their own blood for half the empire I own.
But her—
her voice saying nothing happened with Rafaen?
That's the one thing I can't shake.
She lied. I knew it the second her eyes flinched. Not a big tell. Small. Barely-there. But I saw it.
I always see her.
And I don't know what the fuck Rafaen thinks he's doing.
He's my closest friend. My brother in everything except blood. I have pulled him out of hell more times than I can count. I would hand him my life if he needed it.
But if he starts playing with something that is mine?
He won't have a life left to hold.
And he knows that.
That's what pisses me off the most.
Not that he tried something.
The audacity.
The "I know I'll lose, but I'll still step on the line just to see what happens."
He's always been like that.
He's always been stupid like that.
I'm in my study. The door's shut. The house is quiet in that way silence gets when you're thinking too loud.
There's a file open in front of me, but I haven't actually looked at it yet.
Catherine stands across the desk, tablet in hand, talking about numbers, contracts, the Tavarian property extension in Italy. Her voice is sharp, professional, clean. Everything she says is something I need to hear.
But my head is three rooms away, standing outside a door she locked between us.
Catherine clears her throat, a hint of hesitation, like she's not sure I'm actually… here.
"The negotiations with the Italian board require your signature before Wednesday," she says, more careful now. "If we stall, the Nazrani delegates might try to step—"
"Let them try," I mutter, leaning back in the chair.
Her shoulders stiffen. She doesn't comment. She knows better.
I rub a thumb along my jaw, slow, thinking without meaning to.
Rafaen had come here that night alone. No entourage. No warning. That's not nothing. That's intention.
That's message.
And she lied.
Why?
What did he say to her?
What the fuck did he think he was doing?
I look at Catherine finally. "Continue."
She exhales like she was holding the breath. "The property in Naples is under final zoning review. Idrakhan's side wants to co-invest but Nazrani wants exclusive brand control. You need to decide which direction—"
"Idrakhan gets it." I don't even pause. "Nazrani already has south-eastern territories. They don't touch Europe."
Catherine nods, typing. "Understood."
She's the only person in this house who talks to me like I'm not a loaded weapon. It's useful.
But I can tell she's watching me. Trying to read the mood. Trying to predict if she should keep going or get the hell out of the room.
I don't like being predictable.
I flip the file open finally.
The numbers settle my pulse a little. Math doesn't lie. Markets don't hide. People do.
She does.
Rafaen does.
And I can live with every kind of betrayal except the quiet ones.
The ones wrapped in silence and steady breathing and no explanation.
Catherine's voice cuts in again, softer this time. "Do you want me to schedule a meeting with the Nazrani heir to clarify—"
"No."
My tone is flat. Heavy.
She freezes.
There's a beat.
She knows exactly which Nazrani I'm talking about.
Rafaen.
I look down, sign a page, more force than needed. The pen tip scratches the paper.
"He'll come to me," I say. Calm. Unshaken. But the kind of calm that feels like the second before a storm hits land. "He always does."
Catherine nods slowly. "Yes, sir."
She leaves quietly, door clicking shut behind her.
Silence again.
I sit back.
Exhale once.
Not because I'm overwhelmed.
But because I'm not.
I'm just controlled.
Too controlled.
And control has a breaking point.
She thinks she walked away that night.
She didn't.
She just gave me something to chase.
And I always finish what I chase.
If Rafaen wants to test loyalty, he should have chosen something that wasn't her.
If she wants to lie to me, she should have learned how to breathe around me first.
Two days.
I'll give it one more.
Then I stop waiting.
The house is still pinned under that quiet that feels like it's listening.
I'm sitting in the chair, one hand on the armrest, thumb tapping once every few seconds — not impatience. Calculation. I give myself that one beat, that one controlled rhythm, because anything more than that and I start thinking with my hands instead of my head.
The door doesn't knock. It never knocks.
Izar steps in like the air opened for him.
He closes the door behind him with a soft click.
"It's all ready, sir."
I don't look up immediately. I drag the silence just half a second longer. Let it settle. Let him know I heard him and I'm choosing when to respond.
Then I lean back slowly, eyes finally lifting to him.
A smirk pulls — lazy. Sharp. The kind that tastes like trouble if you look at it too long.
"Good."
My voice is low. Controlled. Nothing more than needed.
I tilt my head slightly. "What about the funds?"
He already knows which funds.
He nods once. "Still frozen. He's trying hard. He's… panicking. He even emailed you again. Wants you to 'speed up the solution.'"
A laugh leaves me — barely there, more breath than sound.
"Yeah," I murmur, tongue pressing against the inside of my cheek for one slow second. "I promised him I'd help, didn't I?"
Izar watches me for a moment. He knows that tone. The one that comes right before I pull the floor out from under someone.
He doesn't smile. He doesn't react. He waits.
The smirk fades. My jaw pulls tight. The air shifts.
"Is he still alive?"
Izar nods. "Yes. But he's refusing to cooperate. No codes. No answers. Nothing. Just keeps saying he won't talk."
I don't sigh. I don't do theatrics.
I just blink once.
"I know," I say. "I saw it in him the moment he opened his mouth that night. Stubborn. Loyal to the wrong fucking people. Thinks pain makes him untouchable."
Izar lifts his chin slightly. "Should we end the—"
"No."
I cut him off without raising my voice.
Killing is easy. Quick. Clean. Forgettable.
I don't do forgettable.
I lean forward, elbows on my knees, voice smooth, almost bored. "That's too easy. I'm not interested in quick endings. I want the triple hit."
Izar's eyes stay steady. No confusion. He gets it.
"Break the empire.
Break the mind.
Break the man."
I nod once.
"Exactly."
We stay in silence a few seconds.
The good kind. The kind where decisions settle in bones.
Izar shifts his weight. "So… you want us to keep him where he is?"
There's the softest flicker in the room. Not movement. Not sound.
Just the truth landing.
I drag my thumb along my bottom lip, slow.
"He's useful. He's scared. And Damien is already starting to fall apart without realizing why."
My voice dips quieter, darker — the kind of quiet that tastes like a knife being dragged through silk.
"We're not done yet."
Izar nods once, no hesitation. "Understood."
He steps back, ready to leave.
But he pauses at the door.
"So," he asks, voice low, steady, final confirmation—
"we're keeping Daniel in the warehouse."
The room doesn't move.
I don't blink.
The ghost of my smirk returns — small, sharp, lethal.
"Yeah," I say. "We are."