Four
Zagan
A myth runs among the fishermen—a tale of a siren that has made many sane men insane. A beauty that outshines the deities that cast her away in envy. Countless men perished in search of the rock on which the siren sits, singing the tale of melancholy and despair. The men who returned, spent their lives in mad houses, talking about nothing but the siren’s beauty, which no earthly woman could match. The voice was so mesmerising that the men couldn’t bear to hear anything else.
Bunch of superstitious nonsense, of course.
But given the recent happenings, I had to halt to think if there is any truth in this particular folklore.
The voices have been in my head since I was a kid. Never quiet. Always pushing, always whispering things no kid should hear. Freak. That’s what they called me. Maybe they were right.
I grew too fast. Taller, stronger, meaner than the others. I scared people without trying, even before I said or did anything. The voices were worse when I got older—angrier. They wanted blood. I gave them what they wanted. Fights. Broken bones. Bodies.
For a long time, I thought the voices made me a monster. That they controlled me. Until I met Iko.
He was the first person who did not look at me like I was a freak. He told me that I had an advantage with the voices in my head, that they were my allies. He taught me control and ever since, I haven’t looked at the voices as anything but an advantage. Some people had to channel their inner rage to tap into the violence that doesn’t come normally to humans. I didn’t have to do that.
I was finally free when I learnt that the voices did not control me, I controlled them. They did not turn me into a monster. True monsters are not created, they are born that way.
I didn’t have to practice rigid self-control over the violence before. I was free to do as I wished, kill whom I wanted. Being a hitman was the right job for my bloodlust. But ever since I’ve taken the throne, the urge to draw violence has turned…pesky.
I nearly shot Morvain—one of the accord asshole—in the last meeting; months later, Iblis still moans about it. About how he had to clean up the mess and bridge the diplomatic relations I do not give a shit about.
The voices that whisper death had never wanted anything but carnage. That has always been the case. The twisted balance of my being. But it changed.
And I blame her.
“Good morning everyone.”
The voices cease, giving me the silence I had only known when unconscious. This siren has created an imbalance I’m not sure how to handle.
The students lap at her words. The enchanting voice capturing everyone’s attention, including mine.
Dr Ara Sinclair.
One of the brilliant minds at Vanderlyne Institute, the place for the bright and filthy rich.
In the shadow of night, she had looked pretty. But under the sunlight streaming from the window beside her, she looks divine. She is clad in form-fitting black pants and a white shirt that is tucked into it. A slight cleavage peeks from below her collar, offering more of her milky flesh to be feasted upon.
Thick square glasses frame her bewitching eyes that weren’t on her last night. Her long, dark, luscious hair falls in waves down to her waist. She is taller than most women. She turns, giving me her back, forcing me to look at her round arse that sits snugly in those pants. She is a well-endowed woman all around. Of course, she would be; she is a siren, after all.
Ara isn’t the kind of woman who starved herself to fit into impossibly tiny clothes. She isn’t about vanity. She doesn’t fit the bullshit standards made by men who wouldn’t know what to do with a real woman. She looks like the kind of woman men waged wars for. She has thick curves, delicious ones, that are accentuated by her clothes.
She turns, her eyes sparkling as she looks at her students.
“How was your weekend, Dr Sinclair?”
One of the attention-seeking puppies asks.
She leans back on her desk, the movement pushing her detectable tits a bit further into her shirt. She isn’t dressed inappropriately, but everything she does has a poise. She is gifted with the forgotten art of seduction without even having to try. And I’m sure that every male in this class is affected by her. Drawn to her.
Her small smile brings my focus to her face. Her wide eyes glitter under the sun, resembling that of dripping honey. Her nose has a tiny, pink stone that glints under the light. Her full cheeks, straight nose and plump lips are the epitome of temptation. Especially when her cheeks stretch with a smile that makes her glow.
“It was…interesting.”
It is imperceptible for anyone else, but I see it. The tiny shiver that jerks her slightly as her eyes glaze over, recalling the events of last night. There’s a sheen of fear in those eyes. I observe to see if it disappears, but it doesn’t.
I’ve always been trained to watch what people hide. It’s the small shit that gives them away—the things they don’t want anyone to notice. And this one? She’s hiding plenty.
She moves like she’s expecting something to happen. Someone to show up. Her eyes track every sound, every shift in the room, like she’s waiting for trouble. Doesn’t like giving her back to anyone. Every step, every glance—controlled. Like she’s always bracing for impact.
But it’s the eyes that tell me the most. Her smile might fool the rest, but not me. There’s fear behind it. Exhaustion. Guarded and weary, like she hadn’t felt safe in a long time. And when there is any sudden noise, any quick movement—she flinches, just a little. Most wouldn’t notice. I do.
This siren’s running from something. Or someone.
Explains how she keeps calm when shit gets bad.
Her friend looked ready to bolt. But not her. She stood steady, mind working behind those tired eyes, already mapping out every way she could get out harmless.
You don’t learn that by accident. You learn it from surviving hell.
What’s she seen? How much of the filth of this world has she waded through to hold her ground like that? Most people would’ve lost their minds at what Luciano found. Not her. She stood her ground.
She sees the monsters under the masks. Makes me wonder if she’s running from one of them.
What did she do to catch the attention of someone dangerous? Did she see something she shouldn’t have? Poke her nose where it didn’t belong?
There’s a story here.
Halfway through her lecture, she senses me. It’s subtle—the way her body shifts. Her shoulders stiffen, her back straightens, and those eyes start scanning the crowd. Just like prey. The kind that knows something’s watching.
But she won’t see me. Not unless I want her to. Living in the dark teaches you how to disappear into it. I’ve been doing it all my life.
Still, she feels me. Same as that night. It makes me wonder. Is she really prey? Or is she just playing the part? Maybe that innocent look is a trap. A lure to pull fools in.
“There is a schedule change for the practical classes. I apologise for any inconvenience.”
Her voice is steady and calm. But I see the way her fingers tighten around her papers. She's uneasy.
Some students groan at the announcement, but the sound fades quickly.
“Dr. Sinclair, is it true you’ve been nominated for the Atkins Award?”
I catch the way her head tilts slightly at the question.
“Yes,” she says, without much fuss.
The name—Atkins Award—clearly carries weight. Whispers spread fast, students leaning into each other. I hear bits and pieces. Prestigious. Almost impossible to win. Only the best get nominated.
“You’d be the youngest winner, right?” another student calls out.
Ara’s lips twitch into a small smile, her cheeks turning a soft pink. She nods. “If I win, yes.”
The murmur grows louder. Questions fly. Her research. Openings in her lab.
She answers politely, but keeps her distance. Smiling just enough. Not letting them in too close. I never heard of the damn award. But judging by the whispers, it’s a big deal. So, she's not just some quiet, harmless thing. She’s got brains.
“I appreciate the enthusiasm, people. The assignment for this week will be posted by Ray in the mail thread and it should be submitted by the end of next week. And it will be graded so it is in your best interest if you do it on your own,” she squints her eyes at a small group huddled in a corner who give her sheepish smiles.
“If there are any doubts, my door is always open. You can leave now.”
The students slowly mill out of the room, leaving Ara and a girl behind.
“Dr Kent wants an appointment to discuss collaborating on both of your experiments,” the woman says causing Ara to frown.
“That’s a load of bull. He wants to hog the credits like he did with my graduate research.”
“No appointment it is,” the girl nods and leaves.
Ara pushes her things into her bag, the soft rustle of paper breaking the silence. That’s when I step out of the shadows. I don’t bother to mask the sound of my steps. It’s a deliberate choice. Her shoulders stiffen immediately, her body going tense as she turns, clutching her bag tight against her chest. Her eyes lock with mine — wide, alarmed.
There’s a flicker in her gaze. A sequence of emotions that cross her face like a storm. First, shock. Then recognition. I can almost feel the pulse of her fear before it twists into something darker. Dread, maybe, but also something... more. Something she tries to hide.
Her pupils contract, a momentary flicker of awe, but then her eyes narrow, a shadow darkening her gaze. And it’s the slight shift in her expression that catches me. That heat — barely perceptible, but it’s there. I inhale, my nostrils flaring instinctively. She’s trying to bury it, but I know what I saw. There’s a pull to her, a tension building between us.
And I can’t help but wonder — how much of that is fear? And how much is something else entirely?
There’s no disgust on her face. I’ve seen it enough times to know when a woman is repulsed by me, the way they shrink back or look away. Not her.
It’s strange. Women, they can’t stomach looking at me. Not just because of the fear I bring, but because of the scars, the marks that cover me like a history of brutality.
The women I fuck beg for it from behind, unable to look at my face because of the scars. The ones who can handle me, they take it, desperate to feel the power, to submit in the ways that come easy to them. They crave the power, the submission, but my face? It’s too much for them. They take everything else, but not that. And I let them. They are nothing but a bunch of blurry pictures I never concentrate on.
But this... This isn’t the same. In a world built on vanity and perfect faces, there’s no place for ugly monsters like me. Pretty scholars, like this little nerd, they’re the last people I’d expect to look at me like this. Like something other than the monster they’d want to run from.
Yet, she doesn’t look away. She doesn’t shrink back in disgust. And that gets under my skin.
Her lips part slightly as she inhales sharply, her grip on her bag tightening until her knuckles go white. Her body goes stiff, the tension radiating from her. That expression—curiosity mingled with just the faintest hint of lust—could land her in trouble.
She’s a paradox, and that’s what draws me in. There’s something about her that makes me want to unravel every layer and own.
Everything about her feels off balance. She’s the unknown in a world where I’m used to the certainty of things, of people. She’s the question I need answered.
“Mr. Devlin,” she breathes, her voice taking on a husky edge.
A tone that tests the rigid control I’ve spent my life perfecting. I say nothing as I stand a few feet from her, letting the wind bring her scent to me.
A maddening blend of hibiscus, vanilla, and something feminine, something uniquely hers. I grit my teeth, fighting the urge to breathe her in fully. The name siren is becoming more fitting for this woman with every second that passes.
We stand there, looking at each other for a few more minutes before she looks away. Abruptly. And with a shake of her head. An irrational part of me rebels at the thought of losing her attention.
It rises up, savage, clawing at me, demanding I close the gap between us. It wants to grip her hair, force her eyes back on mine, and make her scream my name in that sweet foreign lilt until she can't anymore.
But I bury that violent urge deep down and walk away. The heat of her gaze still burns on my skin, but I do nothing.