ZAYAN POV
I don't lose control.
I never do.
Not in rooms full of enemies, not with blood on my hands, not when men twice my size beg for their lives under my boot.
But the moment she looks at me and says, "You're insane," with that fire in her eyes and that defiance still standing after everything she just saw—
Something inside me cracks.
"I can be worse," I tell her, my voice already lower than it should be, already slipping into something dangerous.
She doesn't back down.
She leans in instead, reckless, challenging, her lips barely a breath away from mine as she whispers, "Then show me."
And that is it.
Every ounce of control I've been holding snaps.
My hand tightens around her waist, pulling her hard against me, and I don't think, don't calculate, don't hold back. I crash my mouth against hers like I've been starving and she is the only thing left in the world that can feed me.
For a second, I feel it.
Her shock.
The way her body freezes, the sharp inhale that brushes against my lips, the tension that locks her in place.
And fuck—
Even I didn't expect it to hit like this.
Her lips are soft.
Too soft for someone like her.
Too soft for someone like me.
It's not a careful kiss, not at first, not controlled or practiced. It's rough, driven by everything I've been holding back, everything I should never have let touch her.
Then she shoves me.
Hard.
My head snaps to the side as her palm connects with my face, the sound sharp enough to echo in the room. I let it happen. I don't stop it. I don't even move to block it.
I deserve that.
Her chest is rising fast, her eyes blazing as she glares at me. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"
I turn my head back slowly, my tongue pressing against the inside of my cheek where her slap still burns.
"Tell me you didn't want that," I say, my voice rough, not a demand but something worse.
Something real.
She doesn't answer immediately, and I see it in her eyes.
That hesitation.
That flicker.
Then she hardens again. "I don't give you consent."
A slow smirk pulls at my lips, dark and knowing as I step closer, my hands coming up to frame her face, forcing her to look at me.
"You did," I murmur. "Remember?"
Her jaw tightens instantly. "That was hours ago. Not now."
"Then I'll ask again," I say, my voice dropping, losing its edge, turning into something quieter, heavier. "I'll even beg if I have to."
She scoffs like the idea disgusts her. "Does the great leader of Black Wraiths beg now?"
I lean closer, my forehead almost brushing hers, my breath mixing with hers.
"For you," I whisper, my voice breaking into something I don't let anyone hear, something raw and stripped down, "I'll do anything."
She rolls her eyes, but it's weaker now, not as sharp. "Why would I give my first kiss to a monster like you?"
A low chuckle leaves me, my thumb brushing her jaw slowly. "Because you were made to destroy me," I say quietly. "And I would still thank you for it."
She studies me for a second.
Then—
She moves first.
A soft, quick press of her lips against mine.
Barely a kiss.
More like a question.
And it fucking wrecks me.
My entire body goes still, every nerve snapping tight, my breath catching in my chest like I've just been hit. "Fuck," I mutter under my breath, my forehead dropping against hers for half a second.
Then I tilt her head gently, slower this time, giving her space to pull away if she wants.
She doesn't.
So I kiss her again.
This time, it's different.
Not rough.
Not demanding.
Soft.
Careful.
Like I'm learning her.
My lips move against hers slowly, testing, tasting, memorizing every small reaction she gives me. She's warm, hesitant at first, then slowly responding, her hand gripping my arm like she needs something to hold onto.
Four years.
Four years of watching her, wanting her, holding back every instinct that told me to take what I wanted.
And now she's here.
In my arms.
Kissing me back.
It's not enough.
It will never be enough.
I feel it already, that need building, that hunger turning sharp and restless, but I hold it back. I keep it slow, keep it controlled, even when everything in me is screaming to take more.
Before I can deepen it—
She pulls away.
The loss hits instantly, sharp and sudden, like something important just got ripped out of my chest.
Her eyes meet mine, steady despite everything. "I will hunt you down, Zayan."
A smile spreads across my lips, dark and satisfied as I pull her back in slightly, my mouth brushing against hers again.
"That's exactly what I want, wife," I murmur against her lips.
This time, when I kiss her again, it deepens slowly, still controlled but heavier now, more deliberate, my hand sliding to the back of her neck to keep her close.
Her fingers tighten around my bicep.
And then—
Pain.
Sharp.
Immediate.
A hiss escapes me as her hand brushes against the wound, her touch pressing just enough to remind me the bullet actually grazed me.
She freezes instantly, pulling back, her eyes dropping to my arm. "Are you okay?"
Blood is running faster now, warm against my skin, staining the fabric.
I smirk despite it. "Shame you don't know how to aim properly," I say, my voice still low. "You might have killed me."
Her eyes narrow, and before I can stop her, she presses her fingers against the wound.
Hard.
"Fuck—" I hiss again, my jaw tightening as I glare at her.
"Let me see it," she says, her voice sharp, already reaching for me again.
She grips my arm tighter, her brows pulling together as she studies the wound like it personally offended her.
"God damn it," she mutters under her breath, irritation cutting through her voice. "That's not even worth a bullet."
A smirk pulls at my lips, slow and dark, because she sounds more annoyed about the wasted shot than the fact that she actually shot me.
"Careful," I murmur, watching her closely. "You might hurt my feelings."
She shoots me a sharp look. "Shut up, or I'll slap you again."
My tongue presses against the inside of my cheek where her hand landed earlier, the dull sting still there, still real.
Fucking worth it.
She doesn't wait for a response. She grabs my wrist and pulls me toward the bed with more force than necessary, pushing me down to sit. I let her. I let her handle me like this, let her take control in the smallest way she can get.
She disappears for a moment, then comes back with a first-aid box, dropping down beside me. The mattress dips, her thigh brushing mine for half a second before she focuses again, all sharp edges and concentration.
Her fingers hook into my sleeve, dragging it up without asking, exposing the torn fabric and the blood beneath. Her touch is firm, not gentle, like she's annoyed at the injury itself.
"You're bleeding like an idiot," she mutters.
"I got shot," I remind her lazily.
"Barely," she snaps back, already opening the box and pulling things out with quick, practiced movements.
Her fingers press against my skin as she cleans the wound, and I don't look away from her face. Not for a second. Every small reaction, every flicker of her expression, I take it in like it's something I've been starving for.
She focuses hard, jaw tight, lashes low, completely unaware of how close she is, how her breath brushes against my skin every time she leans in.
Then she dabs antiseptic onto the cut.
It burns.
I don't react.
Not until she leans closer and blows softly against it.
That—
That is worse.
My entire body tightens for a second, something dark shifting under my skin, something I lock down immediately. My jaw clenches, a slow breath leaving me as I force it back under control.
She doesn't notice.
Or maybe she does and ignores it.
Either way, she keeps going, focused, stubborn, completely unaware of what she's doing to me.
I watch her for another second.
Then I tilt my head slightly.
"Have you ever seen someone get killed before?" I ask, my voice calm, too calm.
Her hands stop.
Just for a second.
Then she looks up at me.
And there it is.
That flicker.
Fear.
Recognition.
Understanding.
"No," she says.
I hold her gaze, letting the silence stretch, letting it sink in, letting her feel exactly what she stepped into.
"Do you want to?" .