Chapter 4

The sound of footsteps echoed beyond the office door—measured, deliberate, the cadence of someone who didn’t need to rush.

Zaira stood frozen in place, her breath shallow. The shadows in the room seemed to thicken, curling at the corners of her vision. Zephyrus didn’t move. He watched her instead, gaze fixed, unreadable. The air between them buzzed with a silent tension that neither of them acknowledged aloud.

Then, he spoke—so quietly she almost missed it.

“They’re here for the file.”

Her head snapped toward him. “How do you know that?”

He stepped closer, lowering his voice to a whisper that ran down her spine like ice.

“Because you’ve already made yourself a target,” he said. “You opened Pandora’s box, Zaira. Now the wolves are at your door.”

She clenched her jaw, her spine straightening with defiant fire. “If they want it, they’ll have to get through me first.”

A flicker of amusement passed over Zephyrus’s face. “Brave. Stupid, but brave.”

She shot him a glare.

The door handle rattled.

Without hesitation, Zephyrus stepped in front of her, smooth and fluid, blocking her from the line of sight. The movement was instinctive. Professional. Infuriating.

“I don’t need you to protect me,” she hissed.

“Stay quiet,” he replied, not turning around. His voice was a blade—sharp and unforgiving.

The door burst open, slamming against the wall with a thunderous crash. Two figures surged into the room. Tactical black from head to toe, their faces obscured by matte masks, each moved with practiced precision. One held a combat knife. The other raised a silenced pistol.

They scanned the space. Their eyes landed on Zaira.

“Take the unknown female,” one ordered, voice gruff and filtered. “She’s the one we need alive.”

Zephyrus exhaled a breath like he was disappointed. “That’s a shame,” he said, his voice carrying the thrum of a storm. “I was just starting to enjoy our quiet moment.”

Then he moved.

Faster than she could track.

He closed the distance to the knife-wielding man in a flash, catching the attacker’s wrist mid-strike. A sharp twist—bone snapped. The knife clattered to the floor. The masked man cried out, dropping to one knee.

Zaira’s eyes widened. She had known Zephyrus was dangerous. But this was something else. This wasn’t corporate precision or rhetorical chess. This was blood and teeth and instinct.

The second attacker raised the pistol. Zephyrus wouldn’t reach him in time.

Zaira moved.

“Hey!” she shouted, grabbing a crystal paperweight from her desk and hurling it with everything she had.

The glass caught the gunman’s wrist with a loud crack. He grunted, the weapon slipping from his grip and thudding to the floor.

Zephyrus was already on him.

A blur of movement—an elbow to the neck, a forearm across the man’s throat, pinning him against the wall. The masked figure flailed and gasped, feet kicking wildly, but Zephyrus didn’t relent.

“Who sent you?” he asked, voice deadly calm.

“Go to hell,” the man spat, struggling against the chokehold.

Zephyrus’s grip tightened. “You first.”

Zaira’s heart pounded in her ears.

The first attacker had recovered and was charging toward her now, one arm limp but rage in his movements. She sidestepped his lunge, adrenaline screaming through her veins, and grabbed the desk lamp. She swung it—hard.

The metal cracked across his jaw.

He collapsed into a filing cabinet with a guttural groan.

She stood over him, breath ragged. “I don’t think I’m the one you should underestimate.”

Zephyrus glanced over his shoulder. A flicker of something like pride crossed his face.

Then he slammed the second attacker’s head against the wall—once. Twice.

The man went limp.

Zephyrus let him fall in a heap.

He turned to the first attacker, now on hands and knees. “Your turn.”

The man froze, his mind clearly working through the math: one exit, two enemies, no weapons.

He bolted.

Zephyrus didn’t stop him.

Zaira stood in the quiet that followed, the lamp still in her hand. She wasn’t sure when her breathing had become so fast.

She turned on him. “What the hell just happened?”

Zephyrus dusted invisible lint from his cuff, perfectly composed again. “You just survived your first assassination attempt. Congratulations.”

“Don’t patronize me,” she snapped. “Who were they?”

“Hired guns,” he said, leaning against her desk like it was his own. “Amateurs. But skilled enough to send a message.”

Her fists clenched. “A message from who?”

His expression darkened. “Dorian Verick.”

Zaira stilled.

The name settled like lead in her stomach. The man who’d appeared in her penthouse—the one with glowing eyes and calm threats. The one who’d whispered of threads of time and history repeating itself.

“He knows about the file,” she said quietly.

“Of course he does.”

She stared at him. “How do you know so much about him?”

Zephyrus looked at her then, really looked at her.

“Because Dorian and I have history,” he said slowly. “And if he’s set his sights on you, it’s because he knows you’re the key to getting what he wants.”

“And what does he want?” she snapped.

Zephyrus’s voice dropped.

“Control. Over time. Over fate. Over us.”

A cold silence fell between them. Zaira’s mind raced. It was absurd, impossible—but too many impossible things had happened in too short a time to dismiss it outright. The flashes in the vault. Dorian’s warnings. These masked intruders.

She looked at Zephyrus. Everything in her screamed not to trust him—but he was the only one who didn’t flinch when the world fell apart around her.

“If you’re right about this,” she said at last, “then I need answers. And I’m not waiting for Dorian to come to me.”

His smirk returned—smaller now. Sharper. “You’re stubborn. I’ll give you that.”

She stepped closer, her voice cold. “This isn’t about stubbornness. It’s about survival. If Dorian thinks I’m a threat, I need to know why. And if you know how to stop him, you’re going to tell me.”

He tilted his head, his gaze raking over her. Then he leaned in slightly, his voice low, taunting.

“Careful, Zaira. You’re starting to sound like you trust me.”

“I don’t trust you,” she said flatly. “But I’ll use you if I have to.”

The air between them tightened, the distance electric—anger and adrenaline tangling into something sharper, something neither of them named.

Then Zephyrus stepped back. “Fair enough. But if we’re doing this, you play by my rules.”

Zaira brushed past him and grabbed her phone from the desk.

She dialed. “Vespera. Get me everything we have on Dorian Verick. Now.”

“Zaira?” Vespera’s voice was nervous. “What’s going on? Are you okay?”

“Just do it,” she said, then hung up.

Zephyrus hadn’t moved. He watched her with that same inscrutable look—half amused, half haunted.

Zaira faced him squarely. “If you’re serious about stopping him, prove it. Tell me everything.”

The smirk dropped from his face.