"Did you kill him?"
He pulls back just enough to look at me.
No smirk.
No softness.
Just steady, unreadable eyes locked on mine.
And then, evenly—
"I killed him."
Everything in me just… stops.
My lungs forget how to work.
My fingers go cold.
"What?" It comes out small. A whisper. Like my voice doesn't want to be involved in this.
He watches my face carefully. Not my mouth. Not my body.
My face.
Then he steps back.
Just one step.
Enough space to breathe.
Enough space to think.
I finally look at him properly. Not the sun, not his shirt, not the stupid tan skin and the vein in his forearm that makes my brain glitch.
I look at him.
He looks calm.
Too calm.
"That's what you want to hear, right?" he says.
My brain short-circuits.
"What?"
He tilts his head slightly. Studying me like I'm the suspicious one.
"You've been building it in your head since this morning. The punch. The gala. The article. So I give you what you want." His mouth curves faintly. "Happy now?"
I roll my eyes so hard it physically hurts.
"Don't joke, Zayan. I'm asking you for real."
My heart is still beating stupidly fast and I hate that he can probably see it in my throat.
He doesn't answer.
Instead, he looks at me.
Really looks.
Eyes slow.
Scanning.
Like he's measuring something.
"Sei così tesa," he murmurs under his breath.
I don't understand the words but I understand the tone.
Low.
Almost amused.
"Are you hungry?" he asks suddenly.
I blink.
What.
"Are you serious?"
He steps closer again.
Not rushed.
Not aggressive.
Just… closer.
He tilts his head slightly, and fuck, why does that tiny movement feel like it's aimed directly at my nervous system.
"I asked you something," he says.
I swallow.
"No."
He doesn't look convinced.
"Liar."
"I'm not hungry."
"You are," he says calmly. "You just don't know for what."
I want to punch him.
I want to kiss him.
I want to shake him and demand answers.
My brain is screaming focus.
Focus, Arshila.
He just said he killed someone.
But he said it like a line.
Like a test.
Like he was watching what I would do.
"I'm not dropping this," I say.
He steps closer again.
Now he's right in front of me.
Close enough that I have to tilt my head up to keep eye contact.
Close enough that the salt air mixes with his cologne and it messes with my head.
"Non sto scherzando," he says quietly.
I don't understand the words.
I hate that I don't understand the words.
"What does that mean?" I ask.
He doesn't translate.
Instead, his fingers wrap around my wrist.
Not rough.
Firm.
Warm.
My pulse jumps under his grip.
"Let me make you pasta," he says casually.
What.
My brain is still stuck on homicide and he's talking about carbs.
"I'm asking you if you murdered someone and you're offering pasta."
"Yes."
He doesn't even blink.
"Let's go."
He tugs my wrist gently.
I don't move.
"Zayan."
He looks down at me.
There's something in his eyes now.
Not playful.
Not teasing.
Just steady.
"You think if I had done something like that, I would confess it on a bench with the sea behind us?" he asks quietly.
That hits.
Hard.
My stomach drops.
Because no.
No, he wouldn't.
He leans closer.
His free hand comes up to my jaw.
Not squeezing.
Just holding.
Thumb resting just below my ear.
"You're brilliant," he says softly. "Don't insult yourself."
My brain melts a little at that and I hate it.
"I'm not insulting myself. I'm asking you."
"And I'm telling you," he says calmly, "that you're chasing a narrative because it excites you."
Excites me?
I glare at him.
"I'm not excited."
His thumb drags slowly along my jawline.
Heat shoots down my spine again and I absolutely despise my own biology.
"Your pupils disagree."
Fuck.
I try to pull my wrist free.
He doesn't tighten his grip.
He just waits.
Like he knows I won't actually leave.
My laptop is still on the table.
The article open.
My journal half-hidden under me.
All my messy thoughts carved into paper.
I glance at it for half a second.
He notices.
Of course he notices.
"Leave it," he says softly.
Two words.
Not a command.
But it lands like one.
I look back at him.
He's closer now.
Close enough that I can feel his breath on my cheek.
"Vieni con me," he murmurs.
I don't understand.
But I do.
My brain is still screaming about murder and morality and whether I married into a criminal empire.
But my body—
My body is very aware that he's holding my wrist and looking at me like I'm the only thing in his world.
This is so fucked.
He gives my wrist a small tug again.
"Let's go."
I hesitate.
One more glance at the laptop.
At the headline.
At Lorenzo De Luca's name staring back at me.
Dead.
Gone.
Staged.
My heart pounds once more.
Then I look at Zayan.
And fuck.
Right now?
He's more important.
We end up in the kitchen like this is normal.
Like we didn't just have a conversation that could ruin my entire life.
He lets go of my wrist only when we step inside, but I still feel the imprint of his fingers on my skin. Phantom pressure. Annoying. Distracting.
And of course he takes his shirt off.
Of course.
No explanation.
No buildup.
He just grabs the hem, pulls it over his head, tosses it on the island like it offended him.
I stand there for a second pretending I'm not staring.
I fail.
His back is ridiculous. Broad. Clean lines. There's something unfair about a man looking like that while casually filling a pot with water.
Why are you shirtless to boil pasta?
Is this a Tavarian tradition? Is there a rulebook? Is there a chapter called "Intimidate Your Wife While Cooking"?
He turns slightly and catches me looking.
One brow lifts.
"Problem?"
I look away fast.
"No."
Liar.
He smirks and turns back to the stove. Gas clicks. Flame rises. Water goes on. He moves around the kitchen like he owns it.
Which he probably does.
The house.
The coastline.
Half the damn country.
I lean against the counter and fold my arms.
I shouldn't feel this calm.
I should feel scared.
But I don't.
That's the part that freaks me out.
"When are we going home?" I ask.
It slips out softer than I mean it to.
He chuckles under his breath.
"You asked this earlier."
"You didn't answer it."
He glances at me over his shoulder, amused.
"Persistent."
"I'm serious."
He turns off the tap, wipes his hands on a towel, then faces me fully.
"Then let me answer it," he says. His voice shifts. Less playful. More steady. "We'll go after three days. Promise."
Promise.
The word lands different.
I study his face for a second.
He's not joking.
He's not dodging.
Three days.
I nod slowly.
"Okay."
A small smile slips out before I can stop it.
He notices.
Of course he does.
Water starts to boil. He drops the pasta in. Steam rises between us, warm and thick. He moves closer to stir it, and now we're standing too close.
My shoulder almost brushes his chest.
He smells like salt and heat and something darker underneath.
I look down at the pan, watching the pasta swirl in the boiling water like that's the most fascinating thing in the world.
Focus on the pasta.
Not his collarbone.
Not the way the light hits the curve of his neck.
Not the vein that runs down toward his chest.
Fuck.
Why does he look illegal?
He steps closer.
I don't move.
I should move.
I don't.
He sets the spoon down.
Then he cages me.
Hands on either side of me on the counter.
Arms flexed.
Body close.
Not touching fully.
But close enough that I feel the heat radiating off him.
My back hits the marble.
Cool against my skin.
He looks at me.
Not rushed.
His eyes move slowly.
From my eyes.
To my nose.
To my mouth.
He doesn't blink.
Then lower.
To my collarbone.
The way his gaze lingers there makes my stomach tighten.
I swallow.
I hate that I swallow.
I look up at him again.
Then I make the mistake of looking at his collarbone.
And that's it.
Game over.
There's something about that sharp line under his skin. The way it dips toward his chest. I have the stupidest urge to touch it.
This is not the time to be horny.
He notices where I'm looking.
Of course he does.
His mouth curves slightly.
"Distracted?" he asks.
"Shut up."
He leans closer.
Our breaths mix.
The steam from the pasta wraps around us like this kitchen is suddenly too small.
"You're thinking too much again," he murmurs.
"I'm not."
"You are."
His forehead almost touches mine.
My brain flashes back to the bench.
To his voice.
I killed him.
My chest tightens.
"You didn't answer me," I say quietly.
His eyes hold mine.
Long.
Unmoving.
Then he switches languages.
"Sei intelligente," he says softly.
I don't understand.
I hate not understanding.
"Parli troppo quando sei nervosa."
("You talk too much when you're nervous.")
His thumb brushes just above my hip, barely touching. My breath catches.
"Cosa vuoi davvero sentire, hm?"
("What do you really want to hear, hm?")
"What does that mean?" I whisper.
He doesn't translate.
Instead, he leans in until his lips are almost at my ear.
My heart is pounding so loud I'm convinced he can hear it.
Then
"Hai ragione, l'ho ucciso, e lo farò di nuovo, e ti amo."
("You are right, I killed him, and I will do it again, and I love you.")