ARSHILA — POV
"Arshila?" he says.
I hum without thinking.
Immediately regret it.
My tongue darts out, wets my lips—pure muscle memory, zero consent from my brain—and the room goes dead still. Like the house itself just leaned in.
Even though he can't see it, I know he feels it.
His breath stutters. Just once.
"Wanna play?"
Something in my head snaps. Hard.
I shove him in the chest. Not gently. Not cute. "Are you insane, Zayan?" My voice comes out wrecked, half-breath, half-yell. "What the hell are you talking about?"
He stumbles back a step, more surprised than hurt. Then he laughs. Soft. Annoyingly calm. "Relax, baby. I was talking about a game."
I blink. Once. Twice. My lungs finally remember their job.
"A game," I repeat flatly. My heart is still trying to escape my ribcage. "You say wanna play in a pitch-black room while trapping me against a wall and you expect me to think board games?"
He snaps his fingers.
A small fluorescent light flickers on.
Not bright. Not harsh. Just enough.
The room appears slowly, like it's being revealed on purpose. Small. Clean. Intimate. The light hits him first and I actually hate how unfair it is—how the glow catches his jaw, his eyes, the relaxed confidence written all over his stupid face like he didn't just emotionally jump-scare me.
My breathing picks up again. Traitor lungs.
He watches me notice him. Of course he does.
"See?" he says. "Same place. Same room. Simple."
My eyes flick around. One couch. A low table. Doors closed. No windows. My stomach tightens.
"Same place… doing what?" I ask slowly.
He steps closer. Not rushing. Like he knows I'm not running anywhere.
"Staying," he says. "Together."
My eyes widen. "Are you actually unwell?"
"Kinda," he admits easily. "But that's not new."
I cross my arms like that'll protect me from anything. "You trap me in a dark room and now you want us to… what. Exist aggressively?"
He smirks. "You're already doing that."
My brain, unfortunately, goes straight to the gutter. Because of course it does. Same place. Same room. Don't leave. Don't touch. Or maybe touch. Fuck, I don't know. My thoughts are a mess wearing lingerie.
"That's not a game," I say. "That's a hostage situation."
He tilts his head. "Rules make it a game."
"What rules?"
He leans in just enough that my back remembers the wall even though it's not touching it anymore. "No leaving the room."
My pulse jumps.
"And?" I ask, hating how quiet my voice gets.
"And," he continues, eyes locked on mine, "no pretending you don't feel it."
I scoff, but it's weak. "Feel what?"
He gestures vaguely between us. The air. The tension. The thing buzzing so loud it's basically screaming.
"That," he says.
I swallow. Hard. "You're doing this on purpose."
"Yes."
"For what reason?"
His mouth curves. "You came looking for me."
"That was sarcasm!"
"And yet," he says, stepping closer again, "here you are. Same room. Same place."
My brain is yelling. My body is leaning in like a sellout.
"This game sounds stupid," I mutter.
"Then stop playing."
I don't move.
He notices. Of course he does.
He lowers his voice. "Still think I'm insane?"
I stare at him, chest tight, thoughts filthy and unhelpful. "I think you enjoy watching me spiral."
He smiles. Slow. Dangerous. "Only when you look like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you're deciding whether to run," he says, eyes dipping to my mouth, "or stay."
I hate that my answer is already obvious.
And I hate even more that he knows it.
"What if I don't wanna play?" I say.
The words come out sharper than I mean them to. Defensive. Like I'm trying to put my spine back where it belongs.
He doesn't answer immediately.
Which is rude. And terrifying.
He studies me like I just said something interesting instead of something reasonable. Like I didn't just ask for an exit ramp with my dignity half intact.
"Then don't," he says finally.
My eyebrows knit together. "That was… easy."
He smiles. The slow kind. The kind that means nothing is easy and I should've known better.
"But," he adds, stepping closer again because of course he does, "you're still here."
I glance behind me. Door. Still closed. Traitor door.
"I'm standing," I point out. "That's not consent."
"Never said it was," he replies calmly. "Just observation."
My brain trips over itself. I hate when he does that. When he doesn't push, just waits. Like I'll walk myself right into the mess.
"Stop looking at me like that," I mutter.
"Like what?"
"Like you already won."
His eyes flicker. Amused. "I haven't won anything yet."
"Yet," I repeat. "See? That's the problem word."
I try to step sideways. He mirrors me. Same distance. Same rhythm. It's infuriating. It's hot. I want to bite him and also scream.
"You're cornering me," I say.
"You keep backing up," he counters.
"That's because you keep coming forward."
"Because you keep staying."
God. He's annoying.
I roll my eyes hard enough to risk brain damage. "You talk like this on purpose."
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because it works."
I scoff. "On who?"
He looks at my hand.
The one gripping the front of his shirt like it's a handle on a runaway train.
I freeze.
Fuck.
I drop it instantly like it burned me. "That was— I just needed balance."
"Sure," he says, voice smooth as sin. "You're very clumsy when you're pretending not to want something."
My face heats. "I don't want this."
"Then say it again," he murmurs.
I open my mouth.
Nothing comes out.
My brain is screaming. My mouth is on strike. My body is doing its own side quest.
He notices. Obviously.
His voice dips. "Arshila."
I hum again. Traitor habit. Traitor mouth.
He exhales like that sound alone does something to him. "Careful."
"With what?"
"With making noises like that," he says. "You don't know what I'll do."
I snort, because if I don't laugh I might combust. "Oh please. You're all talk."
His eyes darken. Just a shade.
"Am I?"
"Yes," I say quickly. Too quickly. "You won't do anything."
He steps in. One inch. Maybe two.
"Say that again," he says softly.
My back hits the wall this time. For real.
I swallow. Loud. Embarrassing. "You're insane."
He leans closer. Not touching. Not yet. His voice drops to a near-whisper.
"You married me ."
My heart is doing parkour.
I hate him.
I hate myself.
I hate that I don't move.
He tilts his head, eyes locked on mine. "Now," he says, calm and dangerous, "do you want to stop playing?"
I stare at him, breath uneven, thoughts absolutely not suitable for public consumption.
I whisper, "I hate you."
His mouth curves.
"Liar,"
Fuck.
"I like it when you lie about what you feel," he says.
The words land soft. The meaning doesn't.
I laugh, sharp and ugly. Defense laugh. "Do you know what I'm feeling right now?"
One eyebrow lifts. Just one. Like he's inviting chaos.
"I want to kick your balls," I say sweetly. "Hard. Repeatedly. For sport."
He chuckles. Actual sound. Low. Breath-first. "Fuck."
His tongue presses into the inside of his cheek, jaw tightening like he's enjoying this way too much. "Violence," he murmurs. "That's what you go with?"
"Don't flatter yourself," I say. "It's self-defense fantasy."
He steps closer anyway. Of course he does. Because men like him hear threats as flirting.
"You always jump to extremes," he says. "It's cute."
"Call me cute again and I'll aim higher," I mutter.
He grins. Crooked. Dangerous. "Promises."
My brain is doing laps. Naked laps. I hate it here.
"You think you know me," I say. "You don't."
He leans in, voice low. "I know when you're lying."
"Oh yeah?" I scoff. "Then tell me what I'm feeling."
He looks at my mouth. Lingers. Too long.
"Annoyed," he says. "Wound tight. Curious against your will."
I snort. "Wrong."
"Turned on," he adds calmly.
My lungs forget how to work. Traitors. All of them.
I shove his chest again. Weaker this time. "You're disgusting."
"And you're still not leaving," he says.
I hate that he's right.
He moves closer. Slow. Intentional. No rush. Like he knows I'll let him.
My back presses into the wall. Again. Pattern forming. I should learn. I don't.
"You like pretending you're unaffected," he says. "It's my favorite lie."
"Zayan—"
He cuts me off by leaning in, mouth near my ear. Not touching. Worse than touching.
Then he says it.
Low. Precise. Familiar in a way that makes my stomach drop out.
"You look hot when you pretend to feel nothing."
My breath cuts off.
Not metaphorically. Literally. Like my lungs forget the instructions.
That voice.
That exact tone.
The world tilts.
For a split second I'm not here.
I'm a year and half ago.
Dark room.
Breath on my neck.
That same sentence poured into my ear like a curse.
You look hot when you pretend to sleep.[1]
My skin goes ice-cold under the heat. My fingers twitch. My heart slams so hard it hurts. Not hot this time. Not thrilling.
Wrong.
I pull back fast, eyes snapping to his face.
My head is loud. Too loud.
No.
No fucking way.
I stare at him like I'm seeing him for the first time. Like the room shifted and I missed it.
His expression changes when he sees my face. Not smug now. Sharp. Focused.
Too focused.
My thoughts spiral.
That voice.
That timing.
That line.
My stomach drops into my ass.
Stalker?
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[1] Chapter 16