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My plan was to stab as many men as I could, as quickly as I could, then steal a gun or two.
In a few days, I was leaving and never coming back.
My blood burned with hope at calling Neri—telling her how much I fucking loved her, then jumping on a boat and vanishing somewhere safe.
Throwing me the face towel I used to wipe off my sweat while I trained, Cem wrinkled his nose. “You need a shower.”
I grinned. “Am I offending you, baba?”
His eyes narrowed. “I’m glad you’re back to your old snarky self, Aslan, but I wouldn’t push me too far.” He glanced at the many workbooks I’d been given. His current ledgers and illegal activities teetered in different piles, some tabulated and balanced while others waited to be opened. Resting on the ornate desk beneath the window, an ancient laptop slept, its silver casing decorated with sticky notes from previous accounts.
Cem gave it to me the day I agreed to run his books.
The first thing I’d done was try to message Neri via the internet, only to find the WI-FI chip had been removed. It was as useless as a paperweight. The only thing it could do was type up Cem’s handwritten archaic notes, turning them into neat and brightly-coloured spreadsheets.
It was the one aspect of his business I wasn’t appalled by.
Numbers weren’t people.
Figures weren’t slaves.
I could pretend I was working for Griffen Yule again. Thanks to numbers, I was more centred and calmer than I’d been in a while.
“Why are you here?” I curled my upper lip, swiping at my sweat. I could balance on one leg as easily as I used to stand on two. It’d taken time. Those phantom twinges still happened as my missing toes tried to dig into the carpet, and I swore I felt the same breeze curling around my right leg. On the days when the black smog of depression tried to suck me under, I’d glower at the wheelchair in the corner and want to give in.
But then I’d renew my efforts and double down on my determination to get free. I’d do whatever it fucking took to get out of here.
“Why don’t you use the walking frame?” Cem asked. “Or better yet, try that prosthetic.”
Tossing down the towel, I shrugged back into my white t-shirt. “I don’t want to rely on anything that can be taken away from me.”
He scoffed. “No one would take away your leg.”
I caught his eyes. “You already did that.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Yes, I know exactly what you mean. You want me reliant on something. A fake leg, a walking frame, a cane—”
“I haven’t given you your cane yet. I told you I would when you did something to deserve it.”
“Ha.” I waved at all the boxes of his accounts. “I’ve been working up here like a troll in a cave counting gold for months. What more do you want me to do?”
“Do those three things I asked you a year ago, and you can join me outside. No more chair. No more future persuasion.”
A chill ghosted down my spine at the mention of the chair. I’d lived in fear of being strapped back into it, but so far...he’d been true to his word.
I bared my teeth. “Like I told you then, I am never going to kill, rape, or traffic.”
He snorted. “One day, Aslan. One day.” Darkness filled his already lethally black stare. “Anyway, I didn’t come here to chitchat.”
“Why did you then? How about you just fuck off, and I’ll go take that shower?” I hopped toward the walk-in wardrobe where my prison uniform awaited. Black track pants, black sweatshirts, and white t-shirts all lined up in a row.
Cem followed me. “You might want to hold onto the wall.”
I glowered at him. “Why?” Fisting a fresh t-shirt and trackpants, I hopped and turned to face him. “You planning on finally killing me?”
A cold, sly smile crossed his face. “No, I merely want to tell you who I spoke to today, and I feel the blow might be a little upsetting.” Lifting his hand, he pretended to inspect his fingernails. “Did you know it’s been a year since you returned to me?”
“A year since you shot me, then left me in feverish amputee hell, you mean?”
“Semantics.” He lowered his hand. “What if I was to tell you if you came with me right now, if you killed one of my enemies, fucked a slave, then oversaw the shipment of eight shipping containers of cocaine arriving next week, that you could have everything you ever wanted?”
Leaning my shoulder against the shelving, I crossed my arms. “I seriously doubt you know what I want—”
“You want Nerida. You want to live together in a country where you can legally get married. You want a family with her. A home where you can always be safe.”
