ZAYAN — POV
This is new territory.
Yesterday she trusted me with her pain.
Today she trusted me with her body.
Not in a sexual way.
In a real way.
And I don't get to confuse the two.
I run my hands through my hair again, slower this time, forcing my thoughts to settle. The water keeps pounding my shoulders, steady, loud, like it's trying to knock sense into me.
No rushing.
No pushing.
No staring like an idiot next time.
Just… be steady.
I shut my eyes. Steam clings to my skin. My breath finally evens out.
Fuck, Arshila.
You're going to ruin me.
I turn the water off and step out, towel slung low on my waist. The bathroom feels cooler immediately, like the heat left with the spray. I wipe my face once, then look up.
Mirror.
Wet hair.
Jaw tight.
Eyes darker than usual.
I stare at myself like I'm about to do something irreversible.
"She's my wife," I mutter. My voice echoes off tile. "Looking isn't a crime."
I lean closer to the mirror. Point a finger at my own reflection.
"But touching?" I say quietly. "Never without permission. Never without her asking."
My jaw flexes.
"Don't fuck this up," I tell myself. "Don't turn safety into pressure. Don't turn trust into a cage."
I exhale. Long. Controlled.
"Please," I add, softer. "Just… don't."
I get dressed fast. Like if I slow down, my brain will wander somewhere it shouldn't. Shirt. Pants. Watch. Done.
Downstairs smells like breakfast. Plates clink. Chairs slide. The house feels awake again.
Staff move around setting the table.
She walks in from the living room like she belongs here. Like she always has.
My body reacts before I do. Heat spikes. Muscles tighten.
She stops near the table.
"Where's Izar?" she asks casually. "I didn't see him around."
I grab a glass and drink water instead of answering. My throat's dry again. Figures.
She tilts her head.
"And the housekeeper?" she adds. "he's usually already here."
I pull a chair out and sit. Still don't answer.
Because what am I supposed to say?
That I cleared the house of men because she's wearing shorts?
That it's not about protection, it's about possession?
That I can't stand the idea of another set of eyes landing where mine already have?
That if someone with an XY chromosome even thinks about her legs like I did this morning, it'll be the last stupid thought they ever have?
Yeah. No.
She sits across from me and starts eating like nothing's wrong.
Everything is wrong.
I feel hot again. Like the shower never happened. Like my skin remembers her before my brain catches up.
Metal clinks.
My spoon slips from my fingers and hits the floor.
Fuck.
I freeze.
I am not bending down.
I cannot bend down.
She looks up. "Your spoon fell."
"I noticed," I say too fast.
She raises a brow. "You want another one?"
"I've got it," I reply
Too late.
I bend.
And my eyes betray me.
She's sitting cross-legged. Calm. Unaware. Shorts riding up just enough to ruin my concentration entirely.
Fuck.
It's not even a big deal.
They're legs.
Normal. Human. Everywhere.
Except they're hers.
And that's the problem.
My brain goes traitor-level stupid. Images flash that have no business showing up at breakfast. Heat. Weight. Control I don't deserve to imagine.
I swear under my breath and grab the spoon like it burned me.
Don't.
Don't.
Don't.
I sit back upright fast and put the spoon aside like it's radioactive. Take another one instead.
Cold. Be cold.
She squints at me. "You're being weird."
I swallow. Hard.
"I'm fine," I say flatly.
"You're not," she shoots back. "You've been tense all morning."
I meet her eyes now. Force myself to hold them instead of looking anywhere else.
"Drop it," I say, colder than I mean to.
Her lips part like she's about to argue. Then she stops. Studies me.
"Okay," she says slowly. "Whatever."
She goes back to eating.
I stare at my plate like it's got answers.
My head is loud. Filthy. Unhelpful.
Breakfast.
This is breakfast.
Get a grip.
I take a bite I don't taste and breathe through my nose until the heat dulls.
Restraint isn't passive.
It's active.
It's choosing control every second.
I don't look at her legs again.
I don't trust myself if I do.
I can survive this.
I have to.
------------------------
The couch sinks under my weight.
Laptop balanced on my thighs.
Left hand on the armrest.
Right hand steady on the trackpad.
Control posture.
Catherine's voice fills my ear through the call, crisp and clean like she always is when we're talking money.
"—preliminary numbers are stable," she says. "Fuel hedging worked. Aero Prime isn't bleeding like the competitors."
I nod even though she can't see me.
"Margins?"
"Better than projected. Economy cabin stays intentionally boring. Business stays sharp. Prime Class is where the myth is."
I exhale through my nose.
"Good," I say. "Keep Prime scarce. No discounts. If people can afford it, they wait. If they wait, they want it more."
A pause.
She smiles through the phone. I can hear it.
"Marketing wants to soften the tagline."
"They don't get a vote."
"Thought so."
I scroll through reports. Fleet expansion. Route approvals. Civil aviation compliance. All clean. All boring. All powerful.
"Tavarian Aero Prime doesn't compete with airlines," I say. "It competes with patience. People don't buy seats. They buy access."
"Understood," Catherine says. "Also—maintenance audits came back spotless. Same build philosophy as Aero. No compromise."
"As it should be," I reply. "If a civilian flies Tavarian, they fly like royalty. End of discussion."
She hums agreement.
"We'll finalize contracts tonight," she adds. "Do you want me to—"
Movement.
Peripheral.
My eyes catch it before my brain can stop them.
Her.
Walking in.
And again those legs.
Bare.
shorts.
Fucking aware.
Fuck.
My mouth curves before I can stop it. Slow. Dangerous.
"We can discuss this later," I say into the phone.
Catherine doesn't miss the tone shift.
"Understood," she replies instantly.
Call ends.
Silence drops heavy.
I pretend to focus on the laptop.
Pretend being the key word.
She crosses the room and drops onto the couch beside me like she owns the space. Close enough that her knee almost brushes my thigh.
Almost.
My spine locks.
Here we go.
She grabs the remote and turns on the TV. Doesn't look at me. Just casual. Like she isn't a walking fucking problem.
"You must be doing business in the morning," she says, eyes on the screen.
I clear my throat.
"Something like that."
My gaze betrays me.
Her legs.
Bent now. Thighs fuller when she sits. Soft lines where tension should be. Real. Warm. Mine to not touch.
Fuck.
I run a hand through my hair and bring my knuckles to my lips to hide the smirk forming there. It's not gentle. It's not innocent.
It's dangerous.
She glances at me sideways.
Smirks.
She knows.
Then she crosses her legs.
Slow.
Deliberate.
I feel it low in my gut, sharp and immediate. Heat pooling where it shouldn't. My brain lights up with images I don't invite.
Her legs over my shoulders.
Weight in my hands.
That sharp intake of breath she tries to hide when she's flustered.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
I force my eyes back to the laptop like it personally offended me.
"You should study business," I say, voice too calm for the thoughts trying to claw out of my skull.
She hums. "Why would I?"
"Because it's interesting."
She turns to face me now. Fully. Eyes bright with challenge.
"Oh?" she says. "Is that what you tell yourself when you ruin people financially?"
A smile tugs at my mouth.
"I don't ruin people," I reply. "I just remove the illusion they were safe."
She snorts. "That's worse."
"Accurate, though."
She studies me like she's peeling layers off without touching. Then her eyes flick down.
To my hands.
My thighs.
Back up.
I catch her looking at my mouth.
Just for a second.
Then she looks away.
I don't miss it.
My smirk deepens, slow and unrepentant.
"Business is about leverage," I add quietly. "Knowing when to hold power and when to let someone think they have it."
She raises a brow. "You always talk like this?"
"Only when I'm enjoying the conversation."
Her lips twitch.
She turns back to the TV, but her body stays angled toward me. Knee still crossed. Still there.
Still ruining my focus.
I glance at her lips.
Then her eyes.
Then back to the laptop.
Control.
Control.
Control.
The screen blurs. My thoughts don't.
If I touch her now, I'll never stop.
If I don't, this tension will eat me alive.
I stay exactly where I am.
Barely breathing.
And fucking loving the torture.
____________________
ARSHILA — POV
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Control, Arshila.
I stare straight at the TV like it personally owes me discipline.
How am I supposed to control anything when he's sitting right there—
glasses on, sleeves rolled just enough, two buttons undone like it's an accident and not a calculated sin.
Chest.
Bare.
Warm-fair toned. Not pale. Not soft.
That kind of skin that looks cool until you touch it and realize it burns.
Illegal.
Actually illegal.
My eyes slide before I stop them.
Veins.
Hands.
Those long, stupid fingers resting on the laptop like they were built for damage. Not brute force. Precision. Control. The kind of hands that know exactly how much pressure ruins you and how much keeps you begging.
Fuck me.
I swallow and feel heat crawl up my neck, into my face, down my spine. My thighs press together like that'll help. It doesn't.
He shifts slightly.
Knuckles flex.
God—no. Don't go there.
Don't imagine those fingers anywhere they shouldn't be.
Don't imagine them closing. Guiding. Holding still.
I grab the remote and start flipping channels like my life depends on it.
Sports.
Music.
Some cooking crap.
Nope. Worse.
Everything is worse when you're this wound tight.
I land on the news.
Because why not.
Nothing kills arousal like reality.
The anchor is mid-sentence, voice calm, polished, annoying.
"…continued developments within the Nazrani royal infrastructure—"
I focus. Force myself to listen.
Nazrani.
Royal.
Money. Power. Alliances that smile for cameras and sharpen knives off-screen.
I feel it before I see it.
That shift beside me.
That quiet, smug energy.
He's smirking.
Not big. Not obvious.
Just enough to feel it.
I don't look at him.
I don't give him the satisfaction.
The anchor keeps talking.
"Sources confirm increased foreign interest—"
I wonder, stupidly, if Tavarian and Nazrani are actually friends. Or if this is one of those polite wars where everyone's dressed well and bleeding internally.
Then the anchor stops.
His tone changes.
Face hardens.
"Breaking news," he says. "The D.C. Group's former director, Damien Cross, has been kidnapped."
I freeze.
"What?" I mutter.
The words don't land right.
My brain stumbles over them.
The anchor continues, slower now.
"Initial reports suggest involvement by the underground organization known as Black Wraiths."
My breath catches.
Did he just—
Did he actually just say that?
I turn.
And that's when it happens.
Adam Zayan Tavarian isn't smirking.
He isn't relaxed.
He isn't controlled.
He's staring at the screen.
Eyes sharp.
Jaw tight.
Something like surprise flickering across his face before he can kill it.
The first time I've ever seen it.
Zayan is surprised.
And it scares the hell out of me.