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Pausing, he cleared his throat. “I will make you a promise. For now, I don’t expect anything from you but to heal. Physically and mentally. You have my word that you will not be ‘persuaded’ again until you have gained back your strength. There’s absolutely no point in me training you in this current state. You’ll just shut down further, and I refuse to lose you again. You have my permission to do whatever you want...within this room, of course. If you want to run my books, then I will bring you every ledger and trade. If you want to know more, I will gladly tell you. This is my compromise, Aslan. I hope you will be willing to meet me halfway.”
Grabbing more books from the box, he placed them gently beside me.
I didn’t look up.
This was eerily similar to Griffen Yule offering me a job looking after his rentals. Only difference was Griffen’s business was legal...and this was most definitely not.
“These are the latest accounts I haven’t had time to tally. Follow how I’ve done it in the other books. Learn my system or make up your own. I trust you.” He sighed heavily. “Fuck, how long I’ve waited to be able to say that.” His hand landed on my shoulder and squeezed. “I trust you, Son.”
I went to shrug him off again, but he dropped his hand before I could revoke him. “You are my son, Aslan. You might not be whole at the moment—in body and mind—but you will be. Run my books, heal yourself, and then we shall see where we go to from here.”
Standing, he loomed over me for a moment before adding, “Seni seviyorum, oglum.” (I love you, Son).
He left me.
He left his books on my bed.
And despite myself, the allure to open them overwhelmed me.
With shaky desperation like an addict needing a fix, I grabbed a freshly sharpened pencil from the case full of rulers, erasers, pens, and notepads, then sank into the orderly world where fractions became whole and divisions always yielded a perfect number. Colours exploded in my head, casting light on the darkness inside me, giving me a much-needed reminder of brightness.
That night, I finally found salvation.
I’d used sudoku in Australia to run from the shadowy sickness of my grief.
And without noticing, I did it here.
I used the income and expenses of a crime lord to forget.
I lost myself all over again but this time...
I remembered who I was.
What I was.
And who I belonged to.
Neri.
I belonged to Neri.
As long as I remembered that...I wouldn’t be entirely lost.
As long as I remembered her, I stood a chance...
Chapter Forty-Three
*
Aslan
*
(Heart in Nepali: Mu?u)
*
One year...
“YOU’VE BEEN LYING TO ME!” CEM growled as the door swung open, and he stalked into my room.
I paused mid push-up, sweat dripping off me, my shoulders and biceps burning, my stomach flexing to keep me balanced in a one-legged plank.
“Get the fuck up.” Cem planted himself in front of me. “Now.”
I pushed upright. Thanks to my much-improved core strength, I easily sprang to my foot, balancing on one leg, refusing to use that fucking walking frame or dust-covered wheelchair.
I wasn’t dead yet.
I refused to fucking die.
By his hand or mine.
The only one who could hate me was me.
The only one who could be repulsed by my body was me.
And if I chose to do the opposite?
If I chose to accept my limitations and work with them, then wasn’t that a better use of my time?
I was caged in like a beast. I hadn’t been out of this room in ten months. The only outlet I had was food, exercise, and Cem’s accounts.
I succumbed to the nightmares about Neri because I needed sleep for mental health.
I avoided the urge to think about her during the day because I needed to focus on how to return to her.
I refused to be a hypocrite for the rest of my life.
If Neri could heal from rape, then...I could heal from this.
So what if I’d been violated?
So what if I was a prisoner, and a piece of me was missing?
I repressed what I couldn’t face and strived to fix what I could. My mind created more and more compartments. More walls and locks where I could and could not go. This was just another thing I would deal with once I was free to do so.
I’d made the most of my incarceration.
I was breaking out next week.
I’d overheard the guards talking about a big shipment arriving—a shipment of what, I didn’t have a fucking clue—but Cem would be away, which meant he’d take most of his guards with him, and those left behind were so used to me being a meek, one-legged prisoner that they wouldn’t see me coming.
My hands curled as I shot a look at my bed. Beneath the mattress, I’d hidden six butter knives that I’d painstakingly sharpened with the scissors from the accounting box and toothpaste for grit. I only stole a knife when a particular guard was on duty—a non-observant one.
