ZYLA

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Someone once said hell wasn’t fire. It was sitting beside the devil and realizing he remembered your name.

The scent of the car hits me. Leather, spiced cologne, cold steel. It reminds me of my brother, Zayden. Of before.

Tarin Ferretti doesn’t look at me. His grip on the wheel is tight, veins raised, knuckles pale. The silence between us is cold, like icy winters.

He shifts the gear, one hand on the wheel, the other resting near something metal in the console. Gun?

My lungs fight to breathe. “You’re seriously kidnapping me right now?”

“No,” he replies calmly. “If I wanted to do that, you wouldn’t be in a car. You’d be in a trunk.”

My fingers dig into the seat. “Charming.”

He doesn’t respond.

I hate how composed he is. But more than that, I hate that even now, even with the blood, the fear, and the memories, he still looks and feels like something out of a wicked daydream.

Every flash of streetlight cuts across that annoyingly sculpted face, the sharp jaw, shadowed cheekbones, and a mouth too perfect for someone so cold.

His black hair’s a tousled mess. Like he’s run his hand through it all night. Messy in that infuriatingly sexy way.

I tear my gaze away, but not before he glances at me for a brief second. Those eyes—blue-grey usually, but dark grey in the dark—they used to be softer. Now, they look like they’ve seen too much.

My stomach flips. Damn him.

I tell myself I'm just scared. But that doesn’t explain why I notice the muscles flexing under his sleeve, the way his fingers tighten around the wheel like he’s seconds from exploding. Or why my breath catches when he takes a turn, shadows pulling across his face like a painting done in ash and fire.

He’s not just handsome. He’s lethal. Beautiful in a way that hurts to look at.

But there's that damn ring on his finger. Zayden’s ring.

The ring he doesn't have the right to wear.

“Why you?” I whisper. “Why did you even come for me?”

His jaw flexes, but he doesn't answer.

“Tarin,” I snap. “I’m talking to you.”

His eyes flick to me, briefly. Sharp and unreadable.

Then he tosses a black burner phone into my lap.

“Burner. Keep it on. No calls. Except for reaching me during emergencies. No questions.”

“No questions?” I laugh. It comes out cracked and too loud. “You show up after five years, tell me I’m not safe, and now I’m supposed to just shut up and follow your orders?”

He hits the brakes. Hard.

The car screeches as we jerk to a stop on a shadowy, empty road in the woods.

“Out.”

My stomach drops. “W-What?”

He steps out first, walks around, and opens my door.

The night air hits like ice.

“I’m not killing you, Zyla.” He says it like a tired promise. “You’re staying with me now.”

~~~

His place doesn’t look like it belongs to someone real.

It looks like grief. Grief dressed in expensive obsidian walls and cold marble floors.

The elevator ride up is silent. Except for the buzz in my skull and the ache in my chest.

He pushes a door open and gestures me inside.

The moment I step in, I hesitate.

No photos. No clutter. No warmth. Just basic furniture and one frame.

But what did I expect? A normal apartment?

No. This is a graveyard with designer lighting.

My eyes hit the frame and my feet stop.

It is a photo of two boys. Tarin and my brother, Zayden.

Pain slices through me. “You kept this?”

He doesn’t answer.

Instead tosses a black T-shirt toward me. “The corridor, second room by your left. Shower. You smell like fear.”

I want to throw it back at him, at his stupidly good-looking face precisely.

But I take it. I still smell like blood.

In the shower, I scrub until my skin burns.

But water doesn’t wash away the panic, the gore of what I’ve witnessed.

I grip the edge of the sink and stare in the mirror.

What I see doesn’t feel like me.

My black hair clings to my face, soaked and tangled. I barely recognize it, as its soft waves are twisted into chaos.

My hazel eyes are wide, still in shock. Their gold flecks I used to love now look sharp, like cracks in glass.

The oversized tee hangs off my frame. Tarin’s shirt. It smells like expensive fabric and… him. It feels too familiar. Too intimate.

My gaze drops to the scar on my left forearm. Faint. From a childhood accident. Back then, I cried over hot tea.

Tonight, I ran from a gun.

I come out, moving quietly. Then I hear his voice from the kitchen area.

“…She wasn’t supposed to see it.” He murmurs. “Mancini is moving fast, and if they move on her—”

My pulse picks up.

“Ascoltami,” he speaks Italian, grinding his jaw, “She’s not just a girl. She’s Rosewood’s sister. You know what that means.”

I press back into the hallway shadows, heart pounding.

“I said I’ll handle it. Personally.”

The call ends.

I take a wrong step. The floorboards click beneath me, giving my presence away.

“You sure have a thing for eavesdropping, don't you, Fiore?”

Fiore. It means flower. One of the very few Italians I know.

But I haven't heard that pet name from his lips in ages. It makes my stupid heart skip a stupid beat.

One second, he’s in the kitchen calling me Fiore; the next, he’s standing right in front of me.

His right hand slams against the wall beside my head. Not touching me, but close enough for me to feel the heat radiating off his skin.

I gasp.

He is too close. Close enough that his scent curls into my lungs. Close enough that I can count the flecks of grey in his eyes.

“You’re stubborn,” he says, deep voice low and rumbly.

I swallow. “You’re hiding things.”

His breath hitches.

“So are you.”

He leans in.

Our noses are almost touching. I try to step back, but my back presses into the wall.

“Why are you helping me?” I whisper.

His gaze drops to my lips—just for a second, like he hadn't meant for it to—then back up, as if he catches himself.

He says it low, his voice scraping across my skin. “Because I owe someone.”

“My brother,” I breathe.

He doesn’t confirm it. But the pain in his eyes does.

And something snaps in me.

“Then why…” My voice cracks. “Why did you lead him to his death?”

The words slam into the space between us.

He goes still, and his eyes burn.

“You don’t know what happened,” he says at last, voice low and trembling slightly.

“No,” I whisper. “I don’t. Because both of you never told me anything.”

Tarin’s hand drops from the wall. He steps back, but something in his eyes stays close, lingering.

Then, he walks away.

Leaving me gasping against the wall, in his t-shirt, heat licking beneath my skin.

~~~

I’m curled up on the leather couch.

He didn’t offer a bed. I didn’t ask.

The silence is thick. Like even the ghosts are afraid of him.

No city noise, no ticking clock.

’Tis just his footsteps coming closer.

He stops in front of me, and a blanket lands on my knees.

“Don’t go near the windows. Don’t answer if anyone knocks.”

I look up. “Am I a hostage?”

He turns to leave. Then, over his shoulder:

“No. But if you step outside, you’ll wish you were.”

~~~

I don’t sleep.

Every creak. Every shadow. Every beat of my heart feels like a countdown.

Then, a buzz. My phone.

The screen flashes with a call.

Except—

The number calling me is mine.

But… my phone is still in my hand.

I bolt upright and, feeling a presence there, go to the window.

I see a shadow move. A silhouette. Watching.

My breath hitches, and I back up.

Straight into something hard. Warm.

Arms grab me from behind and yank me back.

I scream.

“Zyla,” he hisses.

It's Tarin.

His hands are wrapped around my waist. His chest to my back. His breath in my ear.

I shiver.

He pulls me away from the window.

Spins me. My breath catches.

Our faces are… inches apart, his hands still on my waist.

My heart thrashes against my ribs.

“Why do you care?” I ask.

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t speak.

But his hands also don’t let go.

His eyes drop to my lips, yet again.

And for one burning second, I think he would kiss me.

But then he lets go. Steps back.

A knock.

We both freeze.

Then he draws his gun and opens the door cautiously.

No one. Just a note.

He picks it up and reads it. His eyes darken.

“What does it say?” I ask over his shoulder.

He hands it to me.

The handwriting is familiar. Sharp. Cruel. The same one who wrote the bloody note in my apartment.

A gasp flies out of my lips.

One sentence. Six words.

You’re not safe with him either.