Zavian's POV:

The honking faded into the background. So did the city lights, the noise, the blur of everything around me. All I could see were the bruises on her wrist.

Faint now. But they'd darken soon.

I should've broken more than his nose.

The bastard had touched her. Had dragged her like he owned her. Had put his fucking face too close to hers.

My fingers curled against the steering wheel, my knuckles white with pressure. The urge to turn the car around, to hunt him down, to make sure he never used his hands again—it clawed at me, gnawed at the last shred of control I barely held on to.

I should've crushed him. I should've snapped every single one of his fingers. I should've made him beg.

The thought was cold. Calculated. And it didn't unsettle me—it centered me.

"Zavian," Aisha's voice came again, softer this time, careful.

I ignored her. My grip tightened. The image of Iman's wide, panicked eyes, her shaky breaths, the way she flinched—it replayed in my head like a sick, taunting echo.

That look wasn't meant for me.

It was meant for him.

And yet, she sat there, rubbing at her bruised wrist, wary, scared. Of me.

She should be.

Because I wasn't done.

Not even close.

I would drop them off. Make sure they were inside, safe. Then I'd go back. Find him. Make sure he remembered exactly why he should've never even thought of touching what wasn't his.

A sharp breath filled my lungs. Controlled. Quiet.

I kept my eyes on the road, but my mind was already somewhere else.

I'd broken his nose tonight.

Till morning, I'd break everything else.

I watched as they scrambled out of the car, their hushed voices mixing with the night air. But my Mashal-e-Mehtaab—she didn't even spare me a glance.

She was afraid.

Good.

Maybe she should be.

She was innocent. Untouched by the kind of darkness that bled into my skin, into my soul. And I? I wasn't. I never was.

Never could be.

I exhaled slowly, gripping the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles turned white. The muscles in my jaw ached from clenching too hard.

That bastard.

I should've killed him. Should've broken every damn bone in his body until he forgot how to breathe. But I had been too focused on her—on the way her eyes had gone wide with fear, on the way she had shrunk away from me like I was just as monstrous as the men I had destroyed for touching her.

And maybe I was.

I didn't belong anywhere near someone like Iman. She was light—the kind that didn't just shine, but burned if you got too close. And I was nothing but a shadow, something she should've never been caught in.

I ran a hand down my face, forcing my breaths to steady, but the anger wouldn't settle. It curled around my ribs, poisonous and unforgiving. My hands were still itching to go back, to finish what I started, to make that bastard bleed until he begged for the pain to stop.

And yet, the only thing that kept echoing in my mind—louder than my rage—was her voice.

"You are dangerous."

A humorless smirk tugged at my lips.

She had no idea.

I drove back to the racing headquarters, the engine growling beneath my grip like it could sense the rage simmering inside me. The tires screeched against the asphalt as I pulled up, headlights cutting through the thick, smoky air.

The place was still alive with chaos—engines roaring, laughter slurred with alcohol, the scent of burnt rubber and sweat thick in the air. It reeked of recklessness, of the kind of danger I had spent years thriving in.

I stepped out, the night heat pressing against my skin, my fingers flexing at my sides, itching for destruction. My gaze swept over the crowd until I found him.

The bastard.

He was leaning against a car, laughing like his nose wasn't still dripping blood onto his shirt, like he hadn't just had his hands on her.

My vision blurred red.

The moment he looked up and saw me, his smirk faltered. Good. He should be afraid. He should have run when he had the chance.

But he didn't. Instead, he straightened, cocky as ever. "Back for round two?" he taunted, his voice still nasally from the hit I'd already landed. His friends chuckled behind him, a few of them shifting uncomfortably. They knew.

They knew I wasn't here to talk.

I wasn't here to warn.

I was here to end.

Without another word, I closed the distance and slammed my fist into his gut, knocking the air clean out of his lungs. He doubled over with a choked grunt, but I wasn't done. I grabbed the back of his head, yanking him up before sending my knee crashing into his ribs.

A sickening crack. A strangled cry.

The heat inside me only flared higher.

He crumpled to the ground, coughing, spitting blood onto the pavement. I crouched down, grabbing a fistful of his hair, forcing his head up until his watery eyes met mine.

"You think it was fun?" My voice was quiet. Lethal. "Touching her?" I twisted his head slightly, just enough to make him feel the power I had over him. He whimpered. Good.

I leaned in, my next words a whisper of pure, unfiltered promise.

"You will never breathe in her direction again."

I slammed his face into the pavement for good measure, letting the pain brand my message into his very bones. Then I stood, shaking off the blood from my hands, and looked at his terrified friends.

"Anyone else?"

Silence.

I turned on my heel, walking away as if nothing had happened, the heat of the night no match for the fire still raging in my chest.

But even as I drove away, even as the blood cooled on my knuckles, I knew—this wasn't enough.

Not yet.

_

I lounged on the couch, one arm draped over the back, fingers lazily scrolling through my phone. A week had passed since the incident. A week of silence. A week of her pretending like nothing happened.

I let her.

Didn't mean I wasn't watching.

Mama sat across from me, flipping through a magazine, oblivious to the storm brewing beneath my calm exterior. I glanced up, locking my phone.

"You didn't invite her for dinner?" My voice was smooth, casual. But she knew who I was talking about.

Mama barely looked up. "I did. She said she'll visit someday. Said she's busy."

A slow smile curled at the corner of my lips. Busy.

Liar.

I tapped my fingers against my knee, exhaling through my nose. If she thought she could avoid me, she was wrong.

Very, very wrong.

I exhaled slowly, staring at my phone, fingers hovering over the screen.

I should let it go. Let her go.

But I never was the type to do what I should.

My jaw ticked as I typed out a message, my thumb hesitating for a fraction of a second before hitting send.

Me: Still busy, Mashal-e-Mehtaab?

I leaned back, tapping my fingers against the wheel, waiting. The three dots appeared, then disappeared. A bitter smirk pulled at my lips. She was debating.

Smart girl.

But not smart enough.

I ran a hand down my face, gripping my jaw. She didn't deserve this. Deserve me. She was good, untouched by the kind of filth I was drowning in.

I should stay away.

I would stay away.

And yet, as her reply finally popped up, my pulse kicked up like I was still on the track, chasing a thrill.

Iman: Yes. Stop texting me.

My smirk deepened, a quiet chuckle slipping past my lips. Stop texting me.

If she really wanted that, she wouldn't have answered.

I stared at the screen, rolling my tongue over my teeth, debating. I could let it go. Leave her be. But where was the fun in that?

I lifted my phone again.

Me: Still lying, Mashal?

Three dots. A pause. Then nothing.

I tapped my fingers against the steering wheel, watching the city lights blur past the windshield. My patience had never been my strongest virtue.

So I did what I did best.

I broke the rules.

The tires screeched as I made a sharp turn, the low rumble of my engine slicing through the silence of the night. She thought she could push me away with a few words on a screen? That was cute.

My car slid into a parking spot near her apartment building. I turned off the engine, letting the silence settle in before stepping out, my boots hitting the pavement with purpose.

The night was quiet, save for the occasional honk in the distance. I slipped my hands into my pockets, leaning against my car as I tilted my head back, staring up at her window.

No lights. No movement.

She was home.

Hiding.

I pulled my phone out again.

Me: Open the door.

I waited. One minute. Two.

Nothing.

A slow, amused chuckle rumbled from my chest as I pushed off the car and made my way to the entrance.

She could pretend all she wanted.

But I wasn't leaving without seeing her.

I raised my fist and knocked, slow and deliberate, letting the sound echo through the quiet hallway.

A few seconds passed before I heard the shuffle of feet, the slide of a lock turning, and then—

The door cracked open just enough for sharp, scrutinizing eyes to narrow at me. Amma.

She wasn't like the others. Not easily fooled by charm or pretty words.

She took one look at me and frowned. "What do you want, beta?"

I slipped my hands into my pockets, offering her a smile that didn't quite reach my eyes. "I'm here for Iman."

Her lips pursed. She didn't move.

"She's asleep," she said flatly.

Lie.

"She can wake up." My voice was smooth, but there was an edge to it, one she caught. Her eyes darkened, arms crossing over her chest.

"She told me about you," Amma muttered, her gaze assessing. "You're trouble."

I tilted my head. "So they say."

She exhaled sharply, shaking her head. "Go home, beta. She doesn't want to see you."

The corner of my lip twitched. Didn't want to see me? That was rich, considering the way she answered my texts, debated each word.

I leaned forward just enough to make her straighten up. "You sure about that?"

Before she could answer, a voice—quiet but sharp—came from behind her.

"Amma?"

My pulse ticked up.

The door opened just a little wider. And there she was.

Iman.

Barefoot, in an oversized hoodie, her hair slightly messy, like she had just woken up.

Her eyes met mine—and in that instant, I knew.

She wasn't expecting me. But she should have.

Iman's gaze flickered to me for a mere second before she turned to Amma, completely dismissing my presence. A faint frown touched her lips, her voice clipped.

"Amma, Josh will be coming over later for some research work. Just let him in when he gets here."

Josh.

I leaned against the doorframe, feeling something cold and sharp settle in my chest.

Amma nodded, muttering something under her breath about decent company. Iman barely spared me a glance before turning on her heel, already walking away, her hoodie swallowing her small frame.

That was it?

I clicked my tongue, jaw tightening.

"Josh?" I drawled, voice dangerously smooth.

She paused mid-step, but she didn't turn around.

"Research," she said shortly. "Not that it's any of your business."

I exhaled a short laugh, stepping into the doorway just enough to make Amma shift warily.

"Everything about you is my business, Mashal-e-Mehtaab."

Her shoulders stiffened. But she didn't turn. Didn't acknowledge me.

She was ignoring me.

Testing me.

Amma shook her head. "Go home, beta. She said what she needed to."

I smiled, slow and knowing.

Did she think I'd just leave?

I glanced at Iman one last time, watching the way she deliberately kept her back to me, hands curling into the sleeves of her hoodie.

Interesting.

I stepped back, lifting my hands in mock surrender. "Alright, Aunty."

I turned on my heel, leaving.

For now.