Arshila's pov
-------
Kamal Rashid Tavarian.
His voice alone is enough to make grown men piss themselves. I've seen it—or at least, I've heard stories. Executives, politicians, war-hardened men who walk into a room with their chest out and leave with their heads bowed, voices shaking. That's what his voice does. That's the weight it carries.
So what the fuck do you think it does to me?
My spine snaps straight before I even realize it. Instinct. My feet want to move, to bolt back inside, lock the door, crawl under the blankets, and pretend I was never out here. But I don't move. My eyes stay fixed on the flowers, because looking at him directly feels like asking for death.
"Arshila."
He says my name again, closer this time. I turn, stiff, snapping like a rubber band pulled too tight. And there he is—Kamal Rashid Tavarian—walking towards me. Slow. Controlled. A man who doesn't need to rush, because the world already waits for him.
My throat dries out. I keep my eyes down. I don't meet his. Can't.
"You look tense," he says, voice deep, steady. Not a question. More like an observation written into stone.
"No, sir. I'm fine." My voice is small. Pathetic. I hate it.
He lowers himself onto the stone bench like the damn earth makes room for him. Every movement deliberate. Like he could sit on a throne or a rock and both would look the same—like he rules it.
"Sit."
"I'll stand here, sir," I murmur, still clutching my arms, like maybe the distance gives me air.
His eyes cut toward me, sharp enough that I feel them without even looking. "Sit." The word is final.
And just like that, my knees bend, traitorous. I sit beside him, stiff, a full arm's length away but it still feels like he's filling all the space.
The sky's bleeding lighter now, sun dragging itself over the horizon. Dawn spilling across the garden. The flowers look softer in it. Kamal doesn't. He's carved from something darker.
"Why do you call me 'sir'?" he asks suddenly. His tone isn't offended. Just curious. Dangerous curious. "And I noticed you call my wife 'madam.' Why?"
I freeze. My fingers knot in my lap. "Because… because that's what you are to me." My voice comes out shaky, weaker than I want. "You're… powerful. Respected. And she—she's the same. I didn't think—"
His eyes narrow just slightly, and I swallow.
"No," he says, calm but firm, like a verdict. "You are my grandson's wife. To me, that makes you family. Not an outsider."
My stomach knots, tighter and tighter. Family? From him?
"Don't call me sir," he goes on. "Or whatever else you think keeps distance. Call me 'grandpa.' That is better to my ears."
I stare at him, stunned. Grandpa. He just ordered me to call him that. Kamal Rashid Tavarian—the man people whisper about like a curse—is telling me to call him something soft. It doesn't fit. My brain can't compute.
I nod, fast, like it's the only answer possible. "Yes… grandpa." The word tastes foreign in my mouth, wrong and heavy, but I say it.
He exhales, satisfied, like he won something.
"Where's Adam?" he asks, smooth shift.
My brain stutters. Adam. He's the only one who calls him that. Everyone else—Zayan. He's Zayan to the world. But to his grandfather, Adam. Like stripping him down to his core.
"He's sleeping," I say finally, cautious.
"Still?" There's the faintest arch of his brow. "Not his style. He usually comes to the gym at this time."
I scramble for an answer, something to fill the silence so it doesn't crush me. "Maybe… maybe he's not going today. Because of… yesterday. The fight."
Kamal turns his head, eyes pinning me. The air between us sharpens. "You know why they fought?"
I shake my head fast, pulse climbing. "No. He didn't… he didn't tell me."
Kamal hums low in his throat, a sound that makes my skin prickle. Like he already knows the truth, like he's testing me, weighing me.
And I sit there beside him, stiff and small, waiting for whatever comes next.
"Why didn't you join dinner yesterday?"
My stomach drops. Just like that, sweat prickles under my shirt. Shit. Of all the questions, that one.
"I…" My throat works, but no words come. His eyes stay locked on me, steady, unreadable, like he's got all the time in the world. Which makes it worse. Way worse.
"I didn't—because Zayan wasn't with me," I finally spit out, too fast, too weak. "So I… I didn't want to go there alone. That's why."
Smooth. Real smooth. My palms are wet. My brain's screaming at me to shut up, but it's too late now.
Kamal leans back slightly, one elbow resting on his knee, like he's evaluating a chessboard. "Where did Adam go yesterday?"
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. My heart jumps into my throat.
"I don't know," I admit, hating how small my voice sounds. "He… he didn't come until midnight."
Kamal hums low, that same terrifying sound again, deep in his chest. Then he says it, casual as breathing:
"You are lucky."
I freeze. The words don't compute. Lucky? What the hell is that supposed to mean?
"Excuse me?" I manage, polite, because if I sound rude I might actually die.
His head tilts just slightly, like a predator deciding if the prey's worth chasing. "You heard me," he says evenly. "I said—you are lucky."
My brain malfunctions. No error code for this shit. "Why?"
"You will understand that later."
What the actual fuck does that mean? My stomach twists tighter. It doesn't feel like comfort. It feels like a warning dressed up as a compliment.
Kamal lets the silence drag for a beat, and I swear I can hear my pulse slamming in my ears.
Then, calm, like he's talking about the weather: "Did you see the house full?"
I shake my head quick. "No. I didn't. Only the west wing garden." And even saying that makes my skin crawl.
"You should explore more," he says. "There's a lot of things to see."
Things. Not rooms. Not places. Things. My chest tightens. I nod anyway, fast. "Yes."
He pushes up from the bench, smooth, powerful, like gravity itself helps him rise. He turns, starts walking. Every step measured, slow, like he owns the ground. Which—he does.
"You should go inside," he says without looking back. "It's cold here."
"Yes, sir." The words slip out automatic.
He pauses. Just a fraction. Then: "Grandpa."
I swallow hard. "Sorry. Yes… grandpa."
And before I can stop it, a tiny, nervous smile tugs at my mouth. Like my body's short-circuiting under pressure.
He doesn't see it. He's already gone.
I exhale sharp, shove my shaky legs to stand, and head back toward the room. My chest's still tight, my mind still screaming, but the one thought pounding harder than the rest?
What the actual hell just happened.
_______________
ZAYAN 'S POV
---
The balcony's washed in early light, sun dragging its lazy ass over the horizon. The whole garden's glowing soft, golden, too fucking peaceful for the people sitting there.
Kamal Rashid Tavarian and my wife.
I can't hear what the fuck they're talking about. Too far. But I don't need to. Watching them's enough. The way she's stiff beside him, back straight like a soldier in front of a commander. And him? Relaxed, like the whole world bends for his comfort. It does. I've seen men twice my size shake in his presence, and she's sitting there like prey caught in the wrong den.
My jaw tightens.
She looks at him when he talks, eyes darting, nervous, like every word's a test. Fuck. He's pulling her in, the old man. And she's letting him. Not by choice—nobody resists him—but still.
What the fuck is he telling her?
If she says I didn't come back until midnight… my stomach knots. He'll dig. That's what he does. Dig until he finds blood. And I can't let that happen. Because no matter how deep Kamal Rashid Tavarian digs, he's not going to find the truth. Not all of it. He'll never know his heir is the monster the world's searching for.
The Hunter.
Yeah. That's mine to carry. And I'll burn the whole fucking earth before I let him connect those dots.
I lean on the railing, watching harder. Their mouths move. Her shoulders shift. She looks like she's swallowing knives just sitting there. But then—something changes. Her body softens a fraction, just barely, and I catch it—the corner of her mouth twitching upward. A smile.
A fucking smile.
My brows pull tight. Kamal leaves, rising with that deliberate pace of his, every step a threat even when it's slow. He doesn't look back. He doesn't have to. He knows the world bends behind him. And she…
She's left sitting there, sunlight hitting her face, lips curved into that strange little smile.
What the fuck did he give her?
Fear. It has to be. My gut says it. He doesn't hand out softness like candy. If she's smiling, it's not because she's safe. It's because he put something in her chest that she can't untangle. Fear disguised as some twisted gift.
And God, she looks—
I drag a hand through my hair, muttering a curse under my breath. She looks like sin in that light. Smiling after Kamal walks away, like she's been initiated into some secret. And maybe she has.
Heat coils in my gut, sharp, dangerous. She doesn't even know. She thinks she's terrified of me, hates me more than anything. But standing there, watching her smile like that—I feel it in my chest, in my blood.
She belongs here. Even if she doesn't fucking want to.
My lips twitch, slow, pulling into something I shouldn't let happen. A smirk. Because the old man saw her this morning. He tested her. And she didn't break.
That makes her mine even more.
And when she finally notices me, when her eyes flick up and find me watching—yeah. I'll make sure she knows it.
Because whatever secret she just shared with my grandfather? I'll rip it out of her. One way or another.
Her head shifts first. Just a small move. Then her eyes flick up and slam straight into mine.
She freezes. Just a second. Like she didn't expect me to be there, leaning against the balcony door like a ghost.
I tilt my head, slow. Watching her. Not blinking.
Her throat moves. She looks away quick, the way people do when they're caught doing something they're not sure they should be doing. She stands from the bench, smoothing her hands down her thighs like that'll hide whatever's sitting in her chest. Then she starts walking, fast but not running, toward the foyer.
I know where she's going.
She's coming to the room.
To me.
I stay put, waiting. Arms braced on the railing. The sun's sliding up now, throwing light across the garden, and I can feel it on my face but I don't move. I wait for the sound.
There. Door knob shifting.
Click.
The door opens.
She steps in, eyes scanning like she's not sure where I am. And I'm exactly where she doesn't want me—still out on the balcony. Watching.
I don't give her time to breathe.
"What were you doing with him?" My voice comes out flat, low. "In this early morning?"
She stiffens. "It's none of your business."
I push off the railing, slow. Start walking toward her, every step deliberate. "It is." My tone sharpens, drops another octave. "So tell me, wife, what did your grandfather-in-law say to you?"
She crosses her arms, chin up but voice tight. "He asked me to call him grandpa instead of sir."
I stop dead. Freeze.
"What?"
"You heard me."
I take another step, eyes locked on her. "Say it one more time."
She doesn't blink. "Kamal Rashid Tavarian told me to call him grandpa, Mr. Adam Zayan Tavarian."
My jaw ticks. A smirk starts crawling onto my face before I even think about it. "Oh."
Her brows pull together. "What's with that reaction?"
"Nothing." My voice is calm but my head's already running scenarios. Because if Kamal told her that, then there's something behind it. He doesn't hand out soft words like that unless he's moving pieces. First, he's decided he likes her as his granddaughter-in-law. Second, he's hiding something. And maybe—fuck—maybe he's making her a piece on his board. A meddler. A test.
And whatever it is, it's coated in danger.
I tilt my head again, eyes narrowing on her. "So," I say finally, voice low. "Are you happy?"
She blinks. "Of course I'm happy."
I let the smirk show now, slow and sharp. "Oh?"
She folds her arms tighter. "You… you know how to smile?"
I step closer, slow enough she can feel the heat rolling off me. "I know how to do a lot of things," I murmur. "Smiling just isn't usually one of them."
Her chin tips up but her pulse is hammering in her throat. I can see it.
I drag my gaze down her face, to her mouth, back up. "Tell me, wife," I say, soft but cutting. "When Kamal Rashid Tavarian asked you to call him grandpa, did it feel like a gift?"
She swallows. "I don't know. Maybe."
"Or did it feel like a leash?"
She hesitates. Just a flicker. And that's my answer.
I lean in a fraction, voice low enough it's just for her. "Be careful with gifts in this family. They come wrapped in barbed wire."
Her lips part but nothing comes out. I smile again, small and wrong. "And that's me smiling," I whisper. "You haven't even seen the rest."
She glares, trying to cover the shiver crawling up her neck. "You're insane."
I chuckle, no humor in it. "Maybe. But I'm the only one standing between you and whatever game my grandfather thinks he's playing with you. So next time you go out there at dawn to sit with him…" I let the sentence trail off, eyes dragging slow over her. "Remember who you're married to."
She glares harder, but her breathing gives her away. She's furious, scared, curious—all at once.
I tilt my head one last time, letting the smirk cut across my mouth. "Good girl."
__________
ARSHILA'S POV
Breakfast's chaos. The long table's full of people, chatter bouncing off the walls, silverware clanging like it's auditioning for attention. I slide in at the end beside him. Zayan. My stomach flips before I even pick up the fork. He's there, calm, unbothered, like he owns every inch of this table and everyone at it.
Beside me, a kid. His uncle's son. I remember he landed last night, straight from abroad, jet-lagged and quiet. He's looking at me now, just staring, like he's figuring me out. I glance at him, give the smallest smile, and he looks away fast. Good.
Zayan's next to me, all sharp angles and dangerous calm. I steal a glance at him and my brain flashes to the room just minutes ago—our conversation with that smirk, that heat, that power. A little smile creeps on my face, and I almost forget the world exists outside that moment.
And then my eyes catch Ebrahim's across the table.
He's smirking. That shit-eating, too-confident, I-know-something-you-don't kind of smirk.
My smile dies instantly. My gut knots.
I look away. Don't want to meet his eyes, but the challenge is there, clear as a knife. My chest tightens. My brain screams, today's not going to be good.
I sink lower in my chair, stiff, hands gripping the edge of the table, stomach twisting. Every instinct in me says this is just the start. Whatever storm is coming, I can feel it, rattling the walls, crawling under the floorboards, already creeping into my chest.
The table's noise keeps going, but I swear I can hear my pulse in my ears.
I swallow hard. Today. Today is going to be a fucking mess.
And I'm not ready.
Not even close.
🚨 48-HOUR FREE BONUS: THE BLACKOUT VOW! 🚨
You're reading Chapter 83… but Chapter 97 is already LIVE for VIPs! Don't wait three more weeks for the plot to move.
FREE FOR 48 HOURS ONLY: Get the full "Blackout Vow" bonus chapter — the Hero's darkest secret revealed! After 48 hours, it disappears forever.
Here's what you're missing behind the paywall:
14 chapters ahead of public release
All uncensored scenes
Side character POVs & crucial lore
Choose your VIP tier:
START SAFE (5/month): 5 Chapters Ahead instantly — low-risk entry
THE INSIDERS (10/month): 10 Chapters Ahead + Side POVs
INNER CIRCLE VIP (15/month): 10+ Chapters Ahead + All Bonus Chapters + Every Uncensored Scene
The story is moving fast — don't let it pass you by!
Check my bio for more